Coyote Ugly

by Pati Nagle

  He backed down, eyes growing shifty and nervous; he shuffled away. Eva breathed again, rinsed a dish and set it in the rack.

  “I gotta pay somebody,” Joe said, whiny now.

  “I can’t help you.”

  “Shit.”

  He pulled a beer out of the refrigerator and popped it open. Eva dried her hands and went to her work table, taking out a new piece of cottonwood. It was silky smooth under the bark, soft and pale. Two little knots right together reminded her of eyes—an owl?

  She stroked it, and sighed. An owl was not Southwestern enough. People carved owls back east.

  She set the wood back on the shelf and took up another piece. This one was twisted, deformed. Like Santa Fe.

  Joe belched.

  “Go away, Joe. I can’t concentrate.”

  “Listen to the big artist.”

  Eyes flared. “Shut up!”

  “You haven’t sold nothing since the Market.”

  “That’s more than you’ve done. If you want any money you’d better leave me alone to do my work.”

  “You should go back to the pueblo and get married.”

  “I mean it, Joe.”

  “’Cept nobody’d take you. You coyote ugly.”

  “Get out!”

  The shifty look came back, and his eyes slid away from hers. He got up and pitched his empty in the sink. Grabbed his denim jacket from a chair back, and headed for the door with a parting shot.

  “Women aren’t supposed to work wood. Grandfather was crazy to teach you. A woman should get married, have kids. That’s what you’re good for.”

  He dodged out as a whirlwind of pencils, dust, and small objects blasted across the room and into the door behind him. Eva’s anger drained and she blinked stupidly at the mess. Then she got up to fetch the broom.

  ~

  Coyote ugly—you chew your arm off to get away the next morning rather than wake her up.

  Eva rubbed her temples, then her eyes. The tiny light on her work table cast a golden pool of brightness in the dim room. In the pool lay the twisted stick she’d been trying to coax into life. It had a rattlesnake’s head—sharp fang danger—and the beginnings of rattles, but in between it was just a stick, stripped of bark and with a few scales carved in.

  Sighing, Eva got up and went to the kitchenette, lit the stove and put the kettle on. Then she walked over to the metal shelves where she kept her tools and her few books.

  On the top shelf lived Coyote, little eyes shining black up by the cracked plaster ceiling. Gently Eva lifted him down.

  Grandfather had carved him while Eva watched, and given him to her before he died. She remembered receiving Coyote from trembling, blotched hands. Now she set him in the pool of light on her table. He stood half crouched, gazing intently, poised to fight or to flee. Warm memories washed over Eva as she looked at him.

  Every curve, every line, every hair lovingly carved was a lesson. Grandfather had talked as he worked the wood, telling her stories, how Coyote had tricked, stolen, cheated, and been tricked and cheated in return. Yet there was always another layer of meaning, peeled back like bark from satiny wood.

  Coyote never lost his innocent wonder at life. Coyote learned his lessons the hard way and in this he was a teacher. He did what he had to, he survived, on his own.

  “Coyote is like you, Eva,” Grandfather had said. “He frightens silly humans with his mischief.” And Eva had shrunk against the tree-roots.

  “Coyote is like me, too,” said Grandfather, as little curls of wood fluttered off his fingers onto his faded dungarees. “He has no friend but himself. He licks when he can lick, he bites when he must bite. He’s free.”

  “But you have me, Grandfather. I’m your friend.”

  “You are? Are you sure I won’t ... bite you!” He caught her up, tickling, and Eva’s shrieks filled the summer sky.

  The kettle screamed; Eva hurried to turn it off. She made coffee and carried her cup back to the table. Set Coyote back from the light, where he watched while she picked up the snake-stick.

  Tiny flakes of wood fell from her hands to the table. Every couple of minutes Eva sent a twist of air across to carry the debris into the wastebasket at one side.

  Each puff of air was an act of defiance. At home, her mother would have punished her for it. “You want people to think you’re a witch?”

  Eva remembered the beating she’d received one winter during the Turtle dance, the year her mother had caught her using wind to sweep the house instead of a broom. She’d been terrified just at the sight of the Tsave Yoh, with their masks and their Spanish whips, and after they beat her they told her mother to tap on the chimney if Eva was bad again, and they’d come and take her away to their labyrinths under the hills.

  “And if we find you are a witch, we will eat you,” they’d told her.

  That night, as she lay shivering in her bed, trying to weep as quietly as she could, Grandfather had laid a hand over her mouth, and silently placed Coyote under her arm. She had never slept so well.

  Eva looked up from the stick in her hands to Coyote watching warily from the shadows. Smiling, she reached out to stroke his back.

  “You are my only friend,” she whispered.

  Coyote just kept watching.

  ~

  At four the next day Eva sat at her table, nervously listening as she whittled her stick. It still wasn’t a snake. Maybe it would never be one.

  She held it at arm’s length. It looked like a stick. She put it down and pushed away from the table.

  Eva went to the stove and put on the kettle. it was still hot from the last time she’d boiled it, but she put it on anyway. She wiped the spotless counter and looked around the room. It was tidy and comfortless. It needed painting. Eva sighed and sat down again, picking up her carving.

  The long, straight section was the least snake-like. Maybe a slight twist would bring it to life. She picked up her knife and gently scraped at the carved scales, finding smoothness beneath, her mind already picturing the arc of scales up the side of the wood. Yes, much better. She glanced up at Coyote, still watching from the back of the table. He seemed to approve.

  A sharp knock at the door made her start. Eva rose and smoothed her skirt as she went forward. The door creaked as she pulled it open.

  “Hello, Eva,” said Mrs. Rougier, stepping inside. “Didn’t you hear the bell?”

  “It doesn’t work,” said Eva, closing the door behind Ms. Messersmith.

  “Oh, yes,” laughed Mrs. Rougier. “I forgot.”

  She was wearing a skirt painted with Hopi designs in pink and purple, a pink woolen shawl, pink suede boots. She unwrapped the shawl from her shoulders and dropped it on Eva’s chair. Ms. Messersmith wore black, and a sour look. She stood just inside the door, gazing around the room.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “That would be lovely, thank you, Eva. Oh, is this your latest piece?”

  Eva glanced to where Mrs. Rougier stood by the work table, nodded. She put a filter and coffee in the top of her old battered pot, poured hot water over. It spattered in the bottom half, and a warm smell arose.

  “You see, Frances? A snake! Isn’t it lovely?”

  Eva carried cups of hot coffee to the ladies. Mrs. Rougier had the carving in her hands, turning it around.

  “See how she’s done the tail? Look at these rattles. Eva, isn’t there something about the rattles?”

  “They grow a new one every year.”

  “So this snake would be one, two -”

  “What’s that, some kind of fox?”

  Eva looked up, saw Ms. Messersmith pointing at Coyote. Mrs. Rougier stopped counting. Eva stepped around the table and picked him up.

  “No,” she said. “He’s a coyote.”

  “Oh, let me see,” cried Mrs. Rougier, taking Coyote from Eva’s hands. “Oh, how beautiful it is! Frances, look!”

  “I never saw a coyote that wasn’t howling at the moon,” said Ms. Messersmith.
>
  “That’s wolves,” said Eva, fighting anger. “Wolves howl at the moon. Coyotes sing to each other.”

  “Oh, it’s lovely, Eva! Why haven’t you brought it to the gallery?”

  “I didn’t carve him.” Eva reached for Coyote, but Mrs. Rougier turned away to her client.

  “Look at his eyes, they almost look alive! Did you paint them, Eva?”

  “They’re beads.”

  “Very good,” nodded Ms. Messersmith, running her hand along Coyote’s back. Eva clenched her fists at her sides.

  “How much?” asked Ms. Messersmith.

  “He’s not for sale.”

  “Oh, Eva, you must sell it! Such a beautiful piece! It should be on display where it can be admired.”

  Eva could hear the front door opening. She felt panic rising, stepped forward and took Coyote back. “My grandfather made him. He’s not for sale.” She hurried to the shelves against the back wall.

  “I want him,” said Ms. Messersmith. “Just name your price.”

  Eva stretched to place Coyote back up in his comer. “Not for sale,” she repeated.

  She turned back to the room. Ms. Messersmith looked offended, Mrs. Rougier disappointed. Behind them Joe stood in the doorway. With a tiny jerk of her head she told him to leave. She was not sure whether to be glad when he obediently closed the door.

  Ms. Messersmith’s coffee cup clacked hard on the work table. “I’ve seen enough.”

  “Oh, Eva, I hope you’ll reconsider. It doesn’t matter if you didn’t carve the piece....” Mrs. Rougier faltered under Eva’s silent gaze. “Or maybe you could carve another one? Yes, your own work! That would be lovely, don’t you think, Frances?”

  “Mm,” grunted Ms. Messersmith.

  Mrs. Rougier’s smile fluttered hesitantly around her face. “Well, I think we should go now. We don’t want to keep Eva from her work.” She retrieved her shawl and hurried to the door where Ms. Messersmith waited. “Thank you so much, Eva. Be sure to bring the snake by when it’s finished.”

  Eva watched from the door as they went down the uneven stone steps to where a silver Mercedes was parked. Hurrying away from her because she wasn’t what they wanted her to be. It made her angry.

  She had tried—she’d spent hours on the snake. Instead they wanted Coyote, whom they could never, never understand.

  The air was sharply cool already, hinting of fall. Eva shivered and closed the door.

  She sat down at her work table, but did not pick up her knife. Instead she stared up at Coyote, crouching in his comer.

  The door creaked open; Joe.

  “Who were they?”

  Eva’s gaze dropped to her hands clasped in her lap. “Mrs. Rougier owns the gallery. She brought a customer over.”

  “They buy?”

  “Maybe a commission.”

  Joe grunted and headed for the fridge. Eva watched him fix a sandwich. He took the sandwich and a beer and plopped down on her bed, turning on the TV.

  She frowned, wishing he would go away. It was hard to concentrate when he was around. Sighing, she got up and poured herself a cup of coffee, brought it back and sat down to work. The TV blared.

  Slowly, patiently, she began to coax the snake out of its stick. The twist she’d added lent just the right movement to the form. Eva sighed, anger fading, and bent closer, beginning to enjoy this new carving. She deepened the scale cuts, added more detail to the rattles, feeling the snake’s emotion begin to emerge. Forgetting the TV, forgetting demands from Mrs. Rougier and Joe, she lost herself in the work and felt free; only her hands and the knife, and the beauty she was creating, existed.

  After a while she stretched and looked around, noticing the room beyond her work light was dim. The Sangre de Cristos glowed pink outside her window; sunset. She flipped on the light switch on her way to the bathroom.

  As she washed her hands, she looked up at herself in the mirror and smiled. Set in her flat face her eyes glowed with warm excitement; triumph of creation. Times like this were good, she thought, drying her hands.

  The front door creaked, then shut.

  “Joe?”

  No answer, TV still blaring. She went over and turned it off, picked up Joe’s dirty plate and beer can, put them on the counter and returned to her table. As she sat she glanced up with a smile at Coyote.

  He was gone.

  With an anguished cry she jumped up, knocking over her chair as she ran for the door. Yanking it open, she saw Joe halfway up the street, Coyote tucked under his arm. He turned, saw her, ran.

  “Joe!” she screamed.

  For a moment she stared in disbelief, then she snatched her keys from the nail behind the door and slammed it behind her as she flew down the steps and into the street. Joe was rounding the comer, heading for Agua Fria Street. Eva tore after him as fast as she could.

  She reached the comer just in time to see him turning east. The chill evening air burned her lungs as she gasped it in. She followed.

  As she started across the street a turning car shrieked its brakes at her. Eva screamed back at it, then kept running, the driver’s curses fading behind her and her heart pounding.

  Joe was leading her toward the plaza. The closer she got, the more people and the fewer cars she met.

  Fiesta was beginning, and soon the plaza would be swarming with pedestrians. The streets were already blockaded. Eva dreaded the crowd where she might easily lose Joe. One dark head in a denim jacket looked much like another.

  She reached the southwest comer of the plaza and stood gasping, eyes searching the crowd. At the far comer she spotted Joe, and forced her aching legs to run again. He struck north, and Eva knew a moment’s dread—he was heading for the gallery, and would reach it before her.

  Then joy burst into her mind. The gallery was closed, Mrs. Rougier was treating her best customers to a gourmet picnic in Fort Marcy Park, to watch Zozobra. Eva would catch up with Joe at the gallery, and take Coyote back.

  Brushing past tourists in festive colors and locals in their own fashion statements she hurried uphill. The light was fading fast and Eva could hear the dull roar of many voices and a distant throb of mariachi music.

  She slipped onto the twisted street that led to Alamosa Gallery and the crowd thinned suddenly. She ran on.

  Slowing to a walk as the gallery came into view, Eva saw Joe staring at its locked door. She closed her parched mouth and breathed the crisp air through flaring nostrils. Joe turned and saw her.

  “They’re gone,” she called, and in the same moment Joe sprang from porch and dashed up the street.

  With a cry Eva followed, slowing by the gallery door just long enough to recognize Mrs. Rougier’s handwriting on the note taped to it. Joe turned north again between two buildings, making for Fort Marcy.

  Breathing hurt now. Eva focused on continuing to move.

  She crossed streets choked with people and got soft dirt in her shoes in rough alleyways. Occasionally she remembered to look for Joe. She spotted him twice; they were moving across the tide of people heading for the park’s gates.

  Across the arroyo, uphill skirting a gently eroding bank, and suddenly Eva was above the park and Zozobra loomed before her, the huge white-robed figure with its black bow tie and buttons, dwarfing the nearby buildings, standing still in the darkness like an actor waiting for his cue while tiny mariachis warbled at his feet. Beneath him the park teemed with people—no lazy picnics now. People crammed through the gates, shouldering each other for a view.

  Eva stopped, panting. Her head throbbed and her legs were shaking. She looked around for Joe. The mariachis flourished to an end and the sea of people below her applauded, yelling and whistling over the unintelligible announcer’s voice that boomed through speakers and echoed off the hillside.

  From her vantage point Eva could see tiny figures moving forward to positions behind Zozobra, ready to work the cables that moved his arms and head. She searched for her brother among them. Then she spotted a pale gleam against denim;
Coyote’s head peeking from beneath Joe’s arm.

  Joe was scanning the crowd below, searching the picnic cloths which were the only spaces not totally covered with bodies. Eva began to work her way toward him.

  Small white-sheeted torch bearers filed across the platform and down the steps, performing their traditional opening dance. A part of Eva responded, remembered excitement and anticipation awakened as the drums began their slow heavy pounding and Zozobra uttered his first low moan.

  She dragged her mind back to her brother and hurried forward. Joe had climbed down the hillside heading for the park. Eva scrambled after him, puffs of dust kicked up from soft caliche.

  She kept his bobbing head in sight; the only face not turned toward Zozobra. He had reached the fence and was starting to climb it.

  Eva began to run, but stopped as a policeman accosted Joe from the other side of the fence. Joe dropped to the ground, started back up the hill at an angle. Eva scrambled after.

  A flash of light and a roaring cheer announced the entrance of the Fire Dancer. From the corner of her eye Eva glimpsed silver and red flying ribbons, but she kept her attention on Joe and caught up with him halfway up the hill. She grabbed his arm.

  “Get off!” he yelled, still climbing up the hill, dragging her with him.

  “Coyote’s mine, Joe! Give him back!”

  “You can carve another, big shot artist.” He tried to wrench his arm away. “Let go, bruja!”

  “Give him back! She won’t buy from you anyway.”

  “Yes she will. You watch.”

  “No!”

  Eva grabbed for Coyote. The back of Joe’s hand slammed into her face and she fell, white lights flashing in her head.

  Zozobra’s outraged howl penetrated the ringing in her ear, and softer voices nearer asking, “You all right?”

  Eva struggled to her feet, brushing off dust and helping hands, and ploughed her way backup the embankment. Joe was running north; he would skirt behind Zozobra’s puppeteers to the west, to sneak through the clubhouse and into the park.

  Eva tried to run but every step brought pain; she stood with tears streaming down her face, watching the dark form slide through shadows along the back of the hill, while Zozobra flailed his giant arms at the fire dancer’s threat and the crowd chanted, “Burn him, burn him!”