Ellen Datlow - Tails of Wonder and Imagination

Mr. Phelps soon comes out with a man and a woman carrying a kid. These Peyote Skies people sure like their backyards and their desert view.

I stay low in the landscaping and edge close enough to hear every word.

“It’s going great, Jimmy Ray.” Mr. Phelps’ hearty, adman voice gives “phony” a gold-plating.

“What about the pet-killing problem?” the top man asks.

“We’ll be rid of all coyotes, dead or alive, any day now. We’re trying low-profile electric fences.”

The boss-man’s face darkens. “That’ll ruin the view.”

Mr. Jimmy Ray Ruggles is as nice-looking as his picture. Though he is only in his mid-thirties, he even smells rich, thanks to some Frenchy men’s cologne. Mrs. Jimmy Ray Ruggles, a slender woman with sun-streaked blond hair, wears Chanel No. 5 with her tennis whites.

She puts down the small girl, whose dark hair suggests that Momma’s been in the bleach bottle. The kid is a little doll of maybe four in a pink dress. She grabs onto her mother’s shorts and hides behind her.

Mr. Phelps looks nervous again. He glances down the green expanse of lawn to the broad brown swath of desert. Between here and there stands the bright Tinker-Toy construction of a kiddie play set that sports enough swings, slides and monkey bars to outfit a whole playground.

“We’re putting the wires real low,” Mr. Phelps says.

“The coyotes will jump ’em if they want to come in bad enough.”

“Maybe not,” Mr. Phelps adds lamely.

I can smell what he’s thinking: not if enough of them die. So the boss does not know about this guy’s one-man pest-control plan.

Mr. Phelps suddenly bends down and smiles at the little girl. “How are you, Caitlyn? Want Uncle Phil to take you for a swingsy?”

Caitlyn doesn’t look too good. In fact, she looks as down in the mouth as Happy Hocks did not long ago. Her dark eyes are as round as two moons in eclipse, and her precious opposable thumb is stuck in her mouth like a lollipop, where it can do no good whatsoever. What I would give for one of those! Preferably two; I am a balanced kind of dude.

“What do you say, Caitlyn?” her mother prods. “Uncle Phil was awful nice to get you that recreation set.” Mrs. Jimmy Ray looks apologetically at Mr. Phelps. “She’s so shy for her age.”

“That’s okay.” Mr. Phelps is really turning on the hard sell now. “She knows her Uncle Phil is her best friend. Come on, Caitie, upsy daisy.”

He swoops the little girl up on one arm, and I can see the fear in her eyes. I myself do not care to be swooped up. As for being forced to swish to and fro at a height in the name of fun… please!

The fond parents smile as Uncle Phil leads little Caitie to the swing set.

I slink under the oleanders until I am level with the gaudy swing set, most unhappy. I will not overhear anything good way down here, but I must follow Mr. Phelps until I get something on him that will stick. At least I now know that his dirty deeds are a solo act.

Mr. Phelps lifts the little girl onto the swing seat. Her clinging mitts turn white-knuckled on the chains. He shoves off. She goes sailing to and fro above his head, down to the ground and up again forward and then down and back.

I shut my eyes. This is worse than watching Happy Hocks lose his Big-o-Burger.

Mr. Phelps looks up as Caitlyn swings over him, her skirt lifting in the wind. Her eyes flash by, terrified.

Then he slows the swing.

“Phil!” Mrs. Jimmy Ray Ruggles is calling from the deck.

Mr. Phelps bends down to whisper something to the little girl. Her fingers do not uncurl from the swing chains.

Mr. Phelps goes up the green lawn to the deck. I turn to follow, but something makes me look back at Caitlyn.

The swing is still. She has bent to pick up something from the grass and is setting it in her lap, gazing at it unhappily. Then, as if taking a pill that will make a bad headache go away, she lifts a hand to her mouth.

I scope the entire scenario in a nanosecond. My mind flashes back to Mr. Coyote-killer Phelps, his hands up, pushing the swing. Again I see his open suit coat swinging back, side pockets tilted at an angle. I can imagine something falling out, and down, to the grass, unnoticed.

The little girl, a shy, unhappy kid who is afraid of almost everything. A familiar package, bright orange, with a tasty piece of Big-o-Burger still in it. Maybe she thinks you can swallow fear, push it back down. Maybe some kids will eat anything, just like coyotes.

I am over in a sling-shot.

I leap up to paw the too-familiar orange paper, then to push her hand away from her mouth. She is chewing. Now her eyes grow enormous, and her fear erupts in a scream.

“Mommy, Mommy!”

She is still chewing.

I leap onto her lap (claws in), to rap her cheek.

Some half-chewed food falls to the orange wrapper covering her short pink skirt like a napkin.

She is still chewing in dazed reflex.

I pat her cheek until she coughs out something more.

But I have seen her swallow.

Then they come for me, three running figures.

“Caitlyn!” they shriek.

“ Shoo! ” they shout. “Get away!”

I leap down with the Big-o-Burger wrapper in my mouth, dragging it from the yard.

“Mommy, Mommy!” Caitlyn cries as she is swept into her mother’s arms, as the two men in their big shoes come after me.

I could outrun them in the snap of a maitre’d’s fingers, but I dare not leave behind the poisoned Big-o-Burger. It is evidence. Uncle Phil knows now that he has to destroy it.

I drag it into the last oleanders between me and the desert, working myself deep into the shrubbery and shadows.

“Jimmy Ray!” Caitlyn’s mother sounds annoyed. “I think she ate some of the food that filthy alley cat dragged into the yard. What was it?”

The men’s feet stop pounding beside me. “I saw the wrapper,” Jimmy Ray Ruggles shouts back. “A Big-o-Burger.”

“Can you imagine how long that was sitting around?” she demands. “Oh, Caitie—”

She retreats to the house, carrying the kid.

I see her husband’s feet swiveling to follow her.

I see Mr. Phelps’ feet moving closer along the oleanders.

I do not need to see his face to know that he looks even more nervous than ever, and angrier. At this moment, Midnight Louie is one should-be dead coyote.

“Phil!” The boss is calling. “Forget the cat. We better get Caitlyn calmed down for a nap. Come up to the house and we’ll talk later.”

The feet before me do not move and I know why. I am a hunter myself. Uncle Phil wants to destroy—evidence, and me. I do not move. If I must, I will desert my hard-won prize, but not without a fight. This time my shivs are out and my teeth are bared.

Finally, the feet turn and thump away.

I withdraw, but not far. I know what I wait for.

The moon is out again, full as a tick.

I watch the dark house.

At what must be my namesake midnight hour, a light blinks on upstairs. I edge forward to watch lights turn on through the house, down to the kitchen.

In five minutes, I can hear sirens. The wash of revolving red lights splash the sides of the big white house like gouts of blood. Soon the sirens wail away, fading, but the house stays brightly lit. Out on the dark, unseen desert, coyotes keep the siren heartfelt company.