Regan Wolfrom: After The Fires Went Out: Coyote

“ How much will this make?” Fiona asked as she watched us do all of the work.

It takes serious guts to be that unhelpful.

“ Tons,” I said. “We must have over a hundred litres of sap here.”

We took it back to the cottage and we boiled the sap on the stove. I lost interest after twenty minutes or so.

I came back after a couple of hours and found that the syrup was ready to sample. The girls had poured it into a rinsed-out milk jug. It didn’t fill up the full four litres but it was more syrup than Graham would have been able to get. He probably would have tapped a squirrel in the nutsack and wondered why the sap was thick and white and tasted so goddamn gamey.

The girls know how to make more of it now, so my work was done. I rewarded myself with a joint, a fap, and a nice, long nap.

“I loved that,” Kayla said once Sara had finished reading. “I honestly felt like he was right here with us.”

“It reminded me that we still have Ant’s collection of fine herbs curing in our basement,” Matt said.

Kayla grinned. “One of us is going to have to go full-pothead to get through all of it,” she said.

“I nominate Baptiste,” Sara said. “If anyone needs to mellow out…”

“I’m perfectly mellow,” I said. “When I’m not surrounded by idiots, that is.”

“You love these idiots,” Kayla said. “I know I do.”

Matt then suggested a toast to the idiots. Kayla brought out a bottle of rye and six hiball glasses; I guess she’d given up on offering any to Fiona.

We had the toast, a drink, and a good laugh. And Sara read the next entry, about the time Ant drew a twelve-panel comic strip depicting Graham and Lisa as nymphomaniac zombies. Lisa still had it, and once she’d retrieved it from her bedroom we passed it around and talked about the sequel Ant had always promised to do.

Tomorrow morning Matt’s going to find a frame so he can hang the “Chronicles of the Erect Undead” in the middle of the living room. Hopefully it’ll help us feel like part of Ant never left.

SARA

From Ant’s “Cast of Characters”, scrawled over several pages at the back of his diary:

Sara, Lisa, Kayla and Fiona. I love every single one of those ladies. And yes, by love I mean I squeezed one off for each of them, and often in sets of two or three…

Let’s start with Sara, since she’s the oldest and according to science doesn’t have that much time left before she goes from delicious to dietary supplement. I think she’s into Baptiste, actually, so she must think she’s already too old and saggy to do any better.

But she’s probably the prettiest one, with white, white and white skin, creamy brown hair and light blue eyes, and just the right amount of late twenties plump. She’s also the kindest and I’ll bet the smartest, not just because she sees through most of my bullshit.

Legend has it she was married once. It wasn’t that the guy died in The Fires, he just left her because he found some chick with bigger boobs. That’s the kind of stunt you pull when you’re dating maybe, but you ought to have your act together by the time you sign up to be someone’s husband. I’d never pull that kind of crap on anyone.

Ant’s secret is: never get married.

But Sara, as smart as she is, she’s still hoping to get married again someday. I can smell it on her, that commitment stench.

She might settle for Baptiste if his gimpy heart doesn’t explode like a fucking briefcase nuke. Or maybe one day she’ll realize that she could steal Graham and his douchey yellow beard away from Lisa if she would just put a little effort in.

You see, I happen to know that ‘Muricans love French girls. All the things that piss me off about the crazy bitches I used to date are somehow alluring to hipster idiots from Illinois.

Sara’s not that bad, really, for a French girl. I wouldn’t say she’s not a little high-strung and little bit self-absorbed, but she’s better than most of the women I’ve known. And I’ll bet she treats a man right. And unlike Lisa I doubt she’s the type to shoot you in the face for checking out another girl’s assets.

I'm not sure who Sara will end up with in the end. But for now I’d be more than willing to give her a slice of my boudin blanc*.

* According to Sara, boudin blanc means “white sausage”. It’s a rather unfortunate visual, but then again it wasn't something we hadn't already seen from him time and time again.

Ant never believed in bathing suits, bath towels, or the proper use of that little button on the front of his boxer shorts. It makes me laugh now to realize that out of all his many flavours, I might miss “naked Ant” most of all.

Today is Thursday, December 6th.

Justin showed up at breakfast time; I’m sure he’d planned it that way for dramatic effect.

Just as he chose to wrap the dead coyote over his shoulders like it was a forty-pound gold medal.

Fiona and Matt were downstairs with me; Sara was upstairs taking a shower, and I had no idea where anyone else was.

Fiona stared at the creature like she expected it to jump onto its feet and attack; they don’t see a lot of fur stoles down in the GTA.

“One down,” Justin said with a wide grin.

“And two to go,” I said as I held open the door. “At the very least.”

He tossed the coyote off onto the floor, barely missing the rug. I’m not sure why he thought we’d want it in the house.

Matt walked over and stared at it; if he’d had a stick I’m sure he would have started poking it.

“Two coyotes doesn’t make a pack,” Justin said. “I doubt they’ll be any trouble.”

“Tell me you didn’t bait them.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I told you not to do it, Justin.”

He sat down on the couch in the living room, throwing his boots up on the wicker coffee table.

Fiona sighed, and of course she rolled her eyes. “You didn’t take your boots off,” she said. “How many times is that?”

“Real men don’t take their boots off, sweetness,” he said.

“Just take off the boots,” I said.

He kicked them off, doing his best to spread more dirt than if he’d kept them on.

“So now we have two coyotes waiting just outside for their next meal,” I said.

“How is that different than yesterday?”

“I don’t understand why you can’t just listen to me?”

“How long have you been up here, Baptiste? A couple of years?”

“Long enough.”

“When I was five years old I used to go out and check the trapline with my uncle. What did you do back home in Toronto? Hunt for the lowest price on tampons? I’d say I’m more qualified than you to catch a few coyotes.”

“That’s not the point,” Fiona said. “Baptiste is in charge.”

“At least Justin gets results,” Matt said.

“Kid’s got a point,” Justin said. “I do get results.”

“The cockiness isn’t helping,” I said. “We’ve given you a chance here, Justin. After what you’ve done…”

“Don’t start.”

I knelt down and picked up the coyote with one hand. It was heavy enough for two, but I’d already committed myself to only using one. I carried it out and threw it onto the porch.