The Guardian's Playlist

by J Powell Ogden

  I hesitated. There was a flyer on the glass window that said they were having another flu shot clinic on Wednesday. I’d been healthy for so long. Damn it. I took my medications. I brought my inhaler with me everywhere. I saw the doctor, like, all the time! I did everything they asked me to do. I didn’t need a flu shot today. I didn’t want a flu shot today. I wanted to see Michael.

  “I’ll come back Wednesday,” I whispered over the counter.

  You should stay...whispered a voice from deep within. I knew in my heart the voice was right, but I left, and it felt good.

  I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think Michael would really refuse to talk to me just because it was a Sunday in Advent. I shouldn’t have worried. Advent was the last thing on his mind when I entered the woods that day.

  “Come with me!” he cried, urging me forward. “I need your help!” He’d already turned and jogged off the path into the woods to the left before I could ask why. It was gloomy in the forest, and my feet kept slipping on the wet pine needles while I tried to keep up with him. He was moving fast and flickering in and out of focus as he struggled to remain visible so I could follow him. It was a good thing he’d been practicing. As it was, I could only track him for a few seconds at a time before he disappeared and reappeared several feet or yards ahead of where he’d been a moment before.

  He pulled up abruptly not far from the edge of the cliff and motioned quietly with his finger for me to follow him. When I saw what he was leading me toward, I froze with my heart in my throat.

  Two yellow eyes set above a mottled gray muzzle raked sharply over me. The coyote was lying on its side, but as soon as it saw me, it lurched to its feet, stretched its black lips back over its glistening fangs and growled deep in its throat. I started to back away with images of another set of murderous teeth rolling sickeningly through my head.

  “Wait,” Michael said calmly. I froze again, and he walked over to the canine, knelt down, and placed his hands on either side of its pointed snout. He looked it in the eye for a moment, then looked back over his shoulder at me and said, “He’s hurt.”

  He shifted a little to the side so I could see. I had been so preoccupied with the coyote’s mouthful of teeth, that I’d missed the arrow protruding from his chest. He stopped growling and whimpered a few times piteously, and I could see that he was having trouble standing.

  “Can you help him?” Michael’s pleaded.

  I took a step closer, and the coyote jerked its head up, training his eyes on my face.

  “Can’t you take him to that wildlife hospital you always talk about?”

  I dropped my gaze to the ground and bit my lip, then looked back at Michael. He had complete faith in me.

  “Michael, they’ll euthanize him. They’re not allowed to rescue coyotes. It’s state law.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “They’re considered a nuisance species.”

  “But they’re beautiful.” He ran his fingertips across the coyote’s back, and his fingers became lost in thick gray fur. He was beautiful, but...

  “Yeah. And they also eat Rover and Fluffy and farmers’ chickens. And they bite people. Remember?”

  Michael turned his wrath on me then. He stood up, his hands clenched into fists at his side. “So you’re just going to let him die? Whose side are you on anyway?”

  I eyed the coyote warily, and he eyed me.

  “Maybe I can…” I took another step forward, and the coyote steadied his stance and growled again. He was posturing, showing me he wasn’t weak, lest I forget. Michael knelt back down and whispered soothing words in his ear, and the coyote dropped his muzzle and sat down on his haunches.

  “Do you think he’ll bite me if I try to—”

  “No, he trusts me,” Michael murmured. He was holding his hand out flat, palm down, and passing it back and forth through the coyote’s right ear. That was easy for Michael to say. He was safe wherever he was, which was far away from here. Plus there was the fact that he was already dead.

  I crouched down low and moved slowly toward him, and while the coyote’s gaze never left my face, he remained docile. When I was close enough to touch him, I reached my hand out in a closed fist, and the coyote sniffed it with his wet nose, then looked at Michael and whimpered again. My heartbeat started to slow.

  “See? You’re fine,” said Michael reassuringly. “So, can you help him?”

  Feeling somewhat safe for the moment, which was probably the stupidest assumption I’d ever made in my life, I looked at his wound. The end of the arrow, with its neon fletching, protruded about three inches from his chest near his right shoulder, and the bolt disappeared in a pool of matted fur and sticky blood. It was angled up and outward toward the coyote’s side, and it looked to me like it passed through his shoulder muscle, missing his vital organs. But with only three inches exposed, how deep was it buried? The arrows I’d seen at the wildlife hospital were almost as long as my arm.

  “Do you have any idea how long this arrow is?” I asked.

  Michael, who was crouched down on the other side of the coyote, held his hands up about eight inches apart. I was surprised. That was pretty short.

  “What did they use to shoot him? Did you see it happen?”

  “Yeah.” He drew his eyebrows angrily together. “It was a couple of stupid teenagers. They were using this thing that looked like a handgun with a bow stuck to the top of it, and they were shooting wildly at anything that moved. But the balls-free bastards ran when he charged them.” He turned back to the coyote and whispered, “Didn’t they boy? Yeah. You showed them.”

  If the arrow really was that short, maybe I could pull it out. At least that was something. I fingered the fletching and thought about that. “Do you know what kind of tip the arrow has?”

  “Like, what kinds are there?” Michael was back to running his palm through the coyote’s pointy ears.

  “Was it blunt, like the kind hunters use for target practice or was it razor-tipped?”

  He stopped playing with the coyote’s ears and thought for a moment. Then he pressed the tips of his fingers together in a tent shape, held them up for me to see and said, “Razor. Three blades stuck together, like this. I found another one in the mud after they left.”

  Shit. There was no way I could pull it out without tearing the coyote’s shoulder muscle to shreds.

  “I’ll have to push it through,” I said. Michael clamped his lips together in a grim line and nodded. He whispered more soothing words into the coyote’s shaggy velvet ear.

  I reached out tentatively and pressed my fingers to the edges of the wound, confirming the arrow’s trajectory. Warm, viscous blood oozed out from between my fingertips. The coyote whimpered again, but held still.

  I grabbed my bag and pulled out the mini first aid kit I began bringing after my first disastrous meeting with Michael, the one that resulted in my scratched up wrists and palms. I still had scars from that. I retrieved the tube of antibiotic ointment, unscrewed the cap, dropped the cap on the ground and stuck the tube between my teeth. I’d have to push the arrow out fast, no wimpy half-hearted attempt, and then be ready to apply the ointment before…well, I just hoped that wouldn’t be the moment he decided to take my face off. I eyed him nervously, feeling his hot, moist breath pant against my cheek.

  “Ready?” I asked, my mouth full. Michael nodded confidently. Right. Okay. I placed my right hand flat against the coyote’s side, near where I thought the tip would emerge, and grabbed the tail end with my left hand.

  “On my three,” I said, taking a deep breath. I heard Michael murmuring softly again.

  “One…two…three…” I counted and then pushed hard and fast and felt the tip ripping its way through muscle. But just as the tip bared its razor-sharp head out the other side, the coyote floundered against me.

  “No!” I cried. I almost had it! The coyote bucked again, and I stupidly wrapped my right hand around the arrowhead, yanking with all my might, and as the coyote hurled himsel
f past me, I pulled the arrow free.

  “Ahh!” I cried, dropping the arrow. I jumped to my feet and shook my hand up and down, flinging drops of my blood onto the carpet of pine needles. “Shit!”

  The tri-blade tip had sliced a deep cut across my palm, and I pulled my hand in to examine it. An icy sting burned all the way through it, and my fingers throbbed.

  “Catherine! Oh shit!” Michael cried, springing to his feet.

  “It’s not bad,” I said. But it might need stitches, I thought. I held it out for him to see.

  The copious amount of blood didn’t faze him. He touched the edges of my palm with the tips of his fingers, and I felt the familiar soft static course up through my wrist, but I was expecting it and kept my hand still. He looked into my face and studied it for a moment and then said, “Catherine, I’m sorry…”

  “Oh…it’s fine!” I said forcefully, trying not to let my eyes well up and pondered how I was going to stop the blood that was quickly pooling between the gaping flaps of skin. I picked up the tube of antibiotic cream and squeezed some onto my hand, and then I yanked the wide bandana out of my hair and wrapped it a couple of times around my palm. I tied it off and pulled it tight with the fingers of my left hand and my teeth. I held out my hand and flexed it a few times. That should hold it for a while anyway, I thought.

  When I looked up, Michael was grinning at me. “Did I ever tell you that you’re amazing?” he asked.

  “Hmm… ” I replied and then shook my head. “No, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that phrase come out of your mouth in reference to me. Maybe seriously delusional or…dumbass or um, insane…and then there was freaking pest…”

  “Okay! Stop! I get it! I can be a real dick sometimes,” he laughed.

  “Sometimes?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Whatever…” he said, still grinning. Then he nodded in the direction the coyote had run off and said, “Thanks. I owe you. I don’t think I could have stood losing another one.”

  “Oh? So you owe me now?” Maybe I could use that. He was immediately wary.

  “Um…maybe? Depends?” he replied cautiously, rubbing the back of his damp blonde head.

  “Oh, relax!” I said, watching him fidget. “What I want is really simple.” I grabbed up my bag and pulled out the little Advent wreath for him to see.

  “Catherine…” he whined.

  “You let me light the jack-o’-lantern,” I pointed out.

  “Halloween’s another one of my personal holidays.”

  “Michael…”

  He rolled his eyes, shifted all his weight to his right foot and tilted his head to the side. “Go ahead. Light the stupid thing,” he said.

  I pulled out the matches and triumphantly lit two of the purple candles. Then I crossed myself and prayed, “May Christ our Savior bring His light into the darkness of our world…um…Michael’s world…as he waits for His coming. Amen.”

  I looked up to find him staring intently into the flames.

  “Now, doesn’t that kindle your Christmas spirit?” I wanted to know.

  “No,” he growled, but not too deeply, and that was progress. Baby steps.

  Then it started to drizzle.

  I felt a few drops on my cheeks first and then on my hair. Then they began to color the little cardboard egg carton with dark polka dots. It wasn’t long before the first flame fizzled and the second one sputtered and went out.

  “Crap,” I said.

  Michael laughed then, hard and long.

  I glared at him.

  “I’m sorry…I just can’t help it…” He doubled over laughing, tears streaming down his cheeks. I stuffed the little wreath back in my bag and swung it through his ungrateful self and then tossed it into the woods.

  “You win! I give up! Have your little nasty demon pity party!” I pouted and walked away from him across the path to the edge of the cliff. Mist was rising from the icy river below and rain was dripping from the bare branches above. Everything was gray. I was getting wet and decided I’d stay drier under the pines, so I started to turn back and—

  “Michael!” I cried. He had soundlessly taken up position just a few inches behind my left shoulder.

  “Sorry,” he said, looking out over the gorge. Then he suppressed another grin. “And sorry about laughing back there…it’s just…um…you’re so flipping adorable when you’re trying to convert me.” Then he glanced down self-consciously at his feet. When he looked back up, his eyes were serious, and he ran his fingers back and forth through his hair, which I’d come to learn he did when he needed to say something he was afraid to say. I braced for whatever it was.

  I was blindsided anyway.

  “And thanks for everything, for putting up with me.” His jaw flexed as he struggled to maintain eye contact. “I should have said it before. I should have said it the first time you came back after I chased you halfway through the woods, I should have said it when you came back after the hundredth time I cussed you out.”

  He looked down at my injured hand, which I was holding protectively close to my chest, and he stroked the edge of the makeshift bandage with the tips of his tingling fingers. The fine vibrations overrode the pain, and I held my hand out closer to his chest in an unconscious bid for more relief. He read the gesture and sandwiched my hand between both of his.

  “Better?” he asked softly.

  I nodded and then pleaded, “Michael, you don’t have to say—”

  “Catherine…” he cut me off, and then went on in a voice that was soaked with emotion, “all you’ve ever done is try to help me, and I’ve been such an ass and…”

  “Tried to help,” I corrected. “Today was the first—”

  But he raised his voice over mine and kept on talking, “…and thank you for coming back tomorrow, even after I practically force-fed you to a coyote today, because I know you will, because that’s what you do. You come back for me over and over again.” His throat filled with husky gravel. “No one’s ever done that for me before.”

  “I don’t know any other way to be,” I murmured. “You’re my best friend. It’s like you always have been.” I glanced away and dropped my hand down through his palms to my side. It immediately began to throb again, and I held it back out to him. He wrapped his otherworldly hands back around it and turned to watch the mist piling up in the gorge. It rolled over and over upon itself, higher and higher, until it finally cut off our view of the opposing cliff in the distance. It seemed like such a long time ago, the day he fell.

  We stood there for a while, and then he cleared his throat. “Um…Catherine, there’s something else you can do for me today.” His brows were knitted worriedly together, but he kept his eyes focused on the thickening mist. Now I was the one who was wary, but it didn’t matter. I’d do anything for him. Anything.

  “Whatever it is, Michael—”

  He held one of his hands up to stop me. “Just hear me out before you start making promises.” I closed my mouth and waited.

  “See, I’ve been thinking about the connection you and me have, you know? Especially, how you knew about that whole Cletus the Ax-toting Freak thing. I keep going over and over it in my head, and I keep coming back to the same thing.” He stopped and glanced uneasily down at our hands and then back up through his lashes.

  “I want to test an idea I have about how you knew.” He paused.

  “Okay…”

  “Um…do you remember what happened to us when you had that thought?”

  I thought back. I had just reached the bathroom door and placed my hand on the handle when I was overwhelmed by his scent and…

  “We overlapped?”

  He nodded and waited for his request to sink in.

  “You want to…overlap…with me…again?” I stammered. That seemed simple enough. We’d just…and then…

  Seeing my flustered expression he let go of my palm and backed quickly away, waving his hands in the air in front of him. “Just forget it. It was stupid.” He folded his arms
over his chest and avoided my eyes. “It was—”

  “No, Michael,” I said, closing the distance between us again. He was right. That had to be it! Maybe he transferred the thought when our minds overlapped. The idea had promise. “I think we should try it,” I said.

  He met my eyes uncertainly. “I just…” his voice stalled out, and his jaw twitched. “I just want to understand what I am…what’s happening to me. You don’t know how hard it is, not knowing…”

  “So let’s try it. What have we got to lose?” I walked back under the pine trees to get out of the worst of the drizzling rain, and swung my arms back and forth restlessly. “So…how should we do this?” I asked.

  He rolled his eyes. “Catherine, you don’t have to pretend for me.”

  “Okay. So I’m a little…apprehensive.”

  He rolled his eyes again and waffled. “I don’t know. Maybe…”

  I raised my eyebrows at him, and he sighed. “Okay, then. I was thinking you probably shouldn’t be standing in case you um…you know, pass out or whatever.”

  Right. I retrieved my bag from the woods, pulled out my stadium cushion and sat down on top of it with my legs crossed. He plunked down on the ground across from me. A shiver bubbled through my chest from both the cold and anticipation.

  “And…” he went on, “I was thinking that I’d try to read your mind, too, you know, if that’s okay with you.”

  “I…yeah…sure…” I pulled in a nervous breath and held my palms up facing him. He reached out his palms and brought them together with mine. That part we had down. They began to tingle again, and we were just barely touching, and though I couldn’t exactly remember the sensation I’d felt when we’d overlapped last time, I knew it had been at least a hundred times more intense than that. But I was ready. So I thought. “Now what?”

  “Then, I guess we…” he fumbled over his words, but I understood. We both leaned forward, but we were too far apart sitting like that, and it was way too awkward. “Shit. This is stupid. I don’t think I can…”

  “I think maybe we should kneel,” I suggested, tucking my feet under me and kneeling up. He sighed and then flashed to an identical position facing me. The top of my head only came up to his chin.