Page 3 of Before We Say Goodbye
The pup sniffed it and turned away.
“Are you being finicky? Some sort of water sommelier? You won’t find better in the world.” Otis could still recall the moment he’d first tasted the water from the well they’d dug in ’94. He’d never tasted anything cleaner in his life.
Eventually the pup inched his way toward the bowl. Now that they were in the light, Otis could see the maimed leg better. He’d have to take him to the vet when they opened. What in the world was he going to do with this guy?
Later that morning, Otis returned from the vet holding a much cleaner and happier coyote. The vet had issued feeding instructions and given the little guy a painkiller and bath and wrapped his foot in a cast. With a cone around his neck, the pup lay glazy eyed and groggy in Otis’s arms.
“What do we do now, little one?” Otis carried him into his office. “Shall we watch a show?” Otis had never kept a television in his office until recently. He’d moved it in from the bedroom.
As he thumbed through stations, he asked, “What am I going to call you, amigo?”
The pup barely opened his eyes, even when Otis nudged him.
“No opinion whatsoever? Somehow I doubt that. A name means a great deal. It must speak of one’s strength and character, no? How about Amigo? That seems to fit well.”
A silence ripe for an ambush of the heart filled the room.
“You know, Amigo, you really came to the wrong bloke if you’re looking for pampering. I’m all out of everything. Cupboards are as bare as my soul.” A memory seized him, of seeing tire tracks in the snow,realizing Bec and Mike had gone out into the blizzard, the agony of trying to get a hold of them.
The lifeless faces of his wife and second-born son at the morgue had burned into Otis’s brain, and he would never stop seeing them. He neverwantedto stop seeing them.
Otis sighed as he stroked the coyote’s back. The poor dog had found the worst man ever to rescue him. He couldn’t even rescue himself.
That night, the coyotes howled with a longing that reverberated within.
Otis was no stranger to the desert dogs that he’d first met in Montana as a boy. He’d felt a connection with them since his family relocated to the US, and when he’d first howled as a teenager—at Bec’s encouragement—he’d released emotions that had been trapped in his chest all his life. As their calls came piercing through the night, both Otis’s and Amigo’s ears perked up. Amigo maneuvered well enough with his leg in a cast and jumped up on the back of the couch, which pressed against the window. He didn’t howl back, but he longingly stared into the darkness.
“The vet says you need a month. They’ll still be waiting on you.” Otis hoped so, at least. Letting him out now would be a death sentence.
Amigo pawed at the window and opened his mouth, as if he might howl back, his way of saying,Mama, I’m in here!, but only a whisper of air came from his lungs, barely enough to cause a whistle.
Heartbroken, Otis scooped him up and tried to comfort him, but Otis knew better than anyone that only your loved ones, only your family, could offer the comfort they both sought. Only your loved ones could teach you how to howl.
In the morning Otis drank his coffee with Amigo on his lap. Though the news disgusted him, he watched anyway and cursed under his breath at life and all the kooks lucky enough to still be alive but not acting that way. He didn’t count, of course, as he’d already been sentenced to death. No man should ever outlive his children.
On the way to retrieve a second cup, he was passing by a shelf of books when one came tumbling down at his feet, nearly striking his toe. “What in the ...?” As he bent down to pick it up, he realized that he’d been attacked by the fancy leather journal that Bec had given him after Camden died.
He picked it up and stood in slow motion, remembering exactly the conversation he’d had with Bec. Joan Didion’s book on grief had inspired her to attempt to write her own way through the loss of their son. She’d toiled away for months before burning what she’d written. Of course, Bec had done better than Otis in the aftermath of Cam’s death, and in true Bec form, she had tried to lift Otis along with her.
He’d been annoyed when she suggested he start writing his memoir. “A memoir?” he said with a contorted mouth like he was eating a fried cricket. “Who would want to read my memoir? What would I have to say anyway?”
“Um, you were a writer when I first met you. Just like your father. It could be good for you.” She had a seemingly endless well of patience for him and ignored his negativity as she placed a kiss on his lips. “It’s not about the product; it’s about the process.”
“I assure you I will never write a memoir.”
She pulled away but still kept a hand on his chest. “Then call it something else. A diary.”
“A diary? What am I, a twelve-year-old girl?” In a mocking and exaggerated British tone, he said, “Dear diary, the wines don’t taste the same anymore. Quite frankly, I want to tie my ankle to a cement block and jump into the irrigation pond. It’s a terrible vintage anyway.”
Bec let out her own dramatic sigh. “You’re beyond impossible. Also, I’m far older than twelve, and I still write in my diary.”
“But you’re . . .”
“What?”
“I don’t know. Elevated. Introspective. Hopeful.”
She finally turned, saying over her shoulder, “For God’s sake, Otis. Just call it a journal. Or a notebook. Quit making such a fuss. Pick up a pen and see what happens.”
