hand and hauled me into the kitchen. It was photo central. The fridge was plastered with shots of me, my brother, Brian, and especially my nephew, Luke. The walls were a bright mosaic. Her postcard collection spanned thirty years and six continents. Alaska, Rome, Cape Town, the Grand Canyon. She sat me down at the kitchen table and opened the fridge.
“So.” She waved a hand. “You satisfied that Phil isn’t here?”
“Guess so.” Mostly I was satisfied that she spoke his name easily, without coldness or rancor. This indicated that they were on the same wavelength at the moment.
“How’s that man of yours?” she said.
“He sends his love.”
“Brian said he looked underweight. Are you cooking for him? Making him laugh?”
She took a pitcher from the fridge and poured two glasses of iced tea. I felt like a grouchy toddler roused too soon from the playpen.
“He’s great. We’re great. And it’s status quo.”
“Just checking.” She smiled. “He’s still the cutest thing on—”
“Wheels. Yeah. You know how I like ’em. Tall, dark, and paralyzed.”
She leaned against the kitchen counter, drank her tea, and rattled the ice cubes in the glass. “Gee. I was going to say the West Coast.”
Red heat climbed up my neck. She set down her tea. Taking a carton of orange juice from the fridge, she poured a glass and set it on the table in front of me along with a trio of pills.
“What’s this?” I said.
“Vitamin C and Tylenol. You’re coming down with something. You only get snotty when you’re feeling punk.”
I found that I didn’t have the energy to stick out my tongue at her. And the only reason I wanted to was because she’d gotten the jump on my slick-as-spit plan to ambush her.
“Sorry. Thanks.”
She put the back of her hand across my forehead. Her skin was cool. I felt soothed and safe and five years old.
“Well, you’re not feverish.” She gestured to the juice, indicating, Drink, drink .
I swallowed the pills. “Achy and tired and a killer headache.”
“Is this PMS?”
“Why do people keep saying that?” I slumped, and conceded, “It’s PMS extreme . It’s so bad it should be an event at the X Games.”
She turned back to the sink. “Is that why you chased your cousin out of your house, hissing like a cobra?”
I pushed the heels of my hands against my eyes. “I’m taking out a hit on Taylor.”
“You can’t.” She turned around. “Then who’d keep us posted on Kendall’s divorce? Or Mackenzie quitting business school to make vegan clothing?”
“True.”
Taylor spread useless information faster than a computer virus. The family counted on her for gossip.
She came over, stood behind me, and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. “Fine. I’ll stop prying.”
“Excellent.”
“Once I’m dead. Then the foundation takes over. It’s in my will.”
I laughed, but felt the headache roaming around the back of my skull. She went and began taking things out of the fridge. I rubbed the muscles in my neck, rolling my head.
“Mom, I’m the one who’s here to pry. I presume you’ve figured out that I flew three hundred miles because I need some straight answers.”
She set cherry tomatoes and a head of lettuce on the counter. “I know. Let’s make some dinner. I have a good Napa Valley red in the wine rack; we’ll crack it open.”
“Please don’t stonewall me.”
Her face was taut. “I won’t. This has been coming for a long time.”
“It has?”
“About twenty years.”
Coyote stood at the window. The view from the hotel room was panoramic. The sky was striated red, the skyscrapers downtown flecked orange with light. Smog provoked superlative sunsets, though they were increasingly rare. Pollution had decreased here. You could just taste it on your tongue, barely smell the hydrocarbons when you lifted your face to the breeze.
Down on Hollywood Boulevard, traffic droned. The sidewalks crawled with people. Tourists, players and
“So.” She waved a hand. “You satisfied that Phil isn’t here?”
“Guess so.” Mostly I was satisfied that she spoke his name easily, without coldness or rancor. This indicated that they were on the same wavelength at the moment.
“How’s that man of yours?” she said.
“He sends his love.”
“Brian said he looked underweight. Are you cooking for him? Making him laugh?”
She took a pitcher from the fridge and poured two glasses of iced tea. I felt like a grouchy toddler roused too soon from the playpen.
“He’s great. We’re great. And it’s status quo.”
“Just checking.” She smiled. “He’s still the cutest thing on—”
“Wheels. Yeah. You know how I like ’em. Tall, dark, and paralyzed.”
She leaned against the kitchen counter, drank her tea, and rattled the ice cubes in the glass. “Gee. I was going to say the West Coast.”
Red heat climbed up my neck. She set down her tea. Taking a carton of orange juice from the fridge, she poured a glass and set it on the table in front of me along with a trio of pills.
“What’s this?” I said.
“Vitamin C and Tylenol. You’re coming down with something. You only get snotty when you’re feeling punk.”
I found that I didn’t have the energy to stick out my tongue at her. And the only reason I wanted to was because she’d gotten the jump on my slick-as-spit plan to ambush her.
“Sorry. Thanks.”
She put the back of her hand across my forehead. Her skin was cool. I felt soothed and safe and five years old.
“Well, you’re not feverish.” She gestured to the juice, indicating, Drink, drink .
I swallowed the pills. “Achy and tired and a killer headache.”
“Is this PMS?”
“Why do people keep saying that?” I slumped, and conceded, “It’s PMS extreme . It’s so bad it should be an event at the X Games.”
She turned back to the sink. “Is that why you chased your cousin out of your house, hissing like a cobra?”
I pushed the heels of my hands against my eyes. “I’m taking out a hit on Taylor.”
“You can’t.” She turned around. “Then who’d keep us posted on Kendall’s divorce? Or Mackenzie quitting business school to make vegan clothing?”
“True.”
Taylor spread useless information faster than a computer virus. The family counted on her for gossip.
She came over, stood behind me, and wrapped her arms around my shoulders. “Fine. I’ll stop prying.”
“Excellent.”
“Once I’m dead. Then the foundation takes over. It’s in my will.”
I laughed, but felt the headache roaming around the back of my skull. She went and began taking things out of the fridge. I rubbed the muscles in my neck, rolling my head.
“Mom, I’m the one who’s here to pry. I presume you’ve figured out that I flew three hundred miles because I need some straight answers.”
She set cherry tomatoes and a head of lettuce on the counter. “I know. Let’s make some dinner. I have a good Napa Valley red in the wine rack; we’ll crack it open.”
“Please don’t stonewall me.”
Her face was taut. “I won’t. This has been coming for a long time.”
“It has?”
“About twenty years.”
Coyote stood at the window. The view from the hotel room was panoramic. The sky was striated red, the skyscrapers downtown flecked orange with light. Smog provoked superlative sunsets, though they were increasingly rare. Pollution had decreased here. You could just taste it on your tongue, barely smell the hydrocarbons when you lifted your face to the breeze.
Down on Hollywood Boulevard, traffic droned. The sidewalks crawled with people. Tourists, players and
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