Page 2 of Before We Say Goodbye
Reality came rushing in as he set his eyes on the urn holding Bec’s ashes, and he batted back the joy. “Oh, right,” he said out loud. “For a moment there, I thought life was peachy.” He still hadn’t shaken his English accent from the first eleven years of his life spent in London. His voice still caught him off guard at times, as he felt very much a part of this land, and, perhaps, even properly American now. Or Americanized, as he said on occasion. No, he still didn’t watch the Super Bowl, but he’d show up at the Red Mountain party for the nachos and cold beer. Well, not this year, but he had in the past. He’d even attended a Super Bowl years ago in Miami, but that was a memory he’d prefer to keep buried.
Stirring in his beyond-worn leather recliner, he kept his eyes on the urn. “When, in fact, life is not peachy at—”
A sound caused him to cock his head sideways; his ears perked up like a dog’s. Before he realized it, he was sniffing, as if to detect a fire.
What bones didn’t pop, what muscles didn’t strain, as he peeled himself off the recliner? He damn near fell to the floor, trying to get his body to work. Almost fifty-nine and he felt ninety-five. That was what three months of barely moving had done to him. Forty years of hard farming, chasing animals, shoveling pomace, and shuffling barrels around, all coming to a halt, allowing his body to finally figure out the truth of his age.
Not that fifty-nine was that old, was it? But Otis was pretty sure that one’s body gleefully presented new ailments at the start of each decade. New places hurt; entire organs decided not to function as well as they had. Hell, he could write a bloody book on the trials of living and dying now, all the way from his back square into the depths of his heart.
Rebecca. Cam. Mike.
All gone.
That was where it hurt the most. Forget his back. Forget his knees and the sore muscles. The real pain lay somewhere so deep there was no way to pinpoint it, a hollowness and sharpness at the same time.
The sound came again, a sort of cry. Otis had fallen asleep dressed, which was nothing new. He pulled on his work boots and stumbled into the kitchen. A half pot of yesterday’s coffee sat cold and stale on the counter. He poured a mug and didn’t even bother heating it up. He slung back enough to get some caffeine in him and then went out through the front door to find the disturbance.
The sun was high enough to offer light, but it still hadn’t poked its head up over the top of Red Mountain. Not that it would do much good anyway, as the entire mountain was a dust cloud.
He’d nearly forgotten that it was March, the month of mistrals, the heavy winds that stirred up dust devils that looked like tornadoes, buthe was reminded very quickly as a cloud poured in through the door, coating him as if he were Santa Claus coming down the chimney and collecting soot.
Otis coughed and squinted his eyes and cursed, thinking of all the equipment and floors and other surfaces that would need scrubbing. For a flash of a second, he missed Sonoma, where the climate wasn’t so harsh. He knew he was where he was supposed to be, but it was nice to remember a time when the Red Mountain dust wasn’t coming after him.
Wait, there it was again, that cry. Damned if it didn’t sound like an animal of some sort.
Otis pulled a blue bandanna from his back pocket and tied it around his mouth to filter his breathing. He followed the gravel road that ran up through the vineyard, squinting to keep the dust from getting in. His team had pruned all the vines last month, the beginning of a new harvest, and the lines of them looked like young military men fresh out of boot camp. They’d already come to life, and in not too long, they’d produce buds.
The sound again, much clearer now.
Fifty feet from the house, Otis stepped down one of the rows of the syrah block that he and Rebecca had planted. A flash of those exciting and eager days after they’d escaped Sonoma and all that had happened came to him. He could feel the posthole digger in his blistered hands as he jabbed the metal into the earth, making enough of a hole in which Rebecca could drop a baby vine. Those days were a new birth.
Right at his feet he heard the noise, a whimper laced in fear. Bending down, he found, curled up in a ball, a tiny trembling coyote pup, about the size of two hands. White streaks decorated his otherwise indigo-brown fur.
When he saw Otis, his oversize ears perked up, and he flashed his teeth.
“Oh, c’mon, mate,” Otis said. “You’re the one trespassing.”
The coyote pup attempted to stand, but he didn’t get very far. A bad leg kept him down.
“Where’s your family?” Even as he asked, Otis realized that he could relate better than anyone on earth. One lone dog to another. “What’s going on with your leg?” He stretched out a gentle hand.
The pup growled again.
Otis retracted at the sight of the teeth. “We’re not going to get very far with you trying to bite me. Trust me, I’m friendly.” He thought he might dash back to the house—if dashing was something his old body could do (come to think of it, it wasn’t)—and grab a piece of bacon to attempt to lure the poor animal. But he worried the pup would sneak off, possibly hurt himself even more. From what little he could see of the leg, the animal was hurt badly.
Otis tried to get closer, talking as kindly as he could. At one point the coyote stood on his three good legs and started moving away, but then he stumbled back to the ground.
The dust wasn’t letting up, but Otis took off his bandanna, hoping he might look a little friendlier. “All right, mate, we need to make some decisions. You need me more than I need you.”
More forceful this time, Otis reached over and finally got a hand on him. The pup went after him with a bite that proved somewhat harmless.
Otis grinned. “Okay, you’re younger than I thought.” His teeth had barely come in. Otis had seen rabid; this one was not. “Don’t worry, I’m the last person on this mountain you should be afraid of.”
Otis knelt and did his best to gently scoop up the animal. The pup cried as the damage to its leg revealed itself. The bone was broken below the knee.
Handling the coyote delicately and speaking in gentle whispers, Otis returned to the house, finally escaping the dust. Unsure what to do, Otis set him down on the rug in the living room. Standing on three legs, the pup looked around nervously but stopped growling.
Fetching a bowl of water from the kitchen, Otis dipped in his finger, splashing it. “It’s safe to drink. Some of the best water you’ll ever have. Well water from three hundred feet down.”
