Why the Coyote Cries

“Oh, hello, dear,” the woman said to Kathleen.

Kathleen stared at the weapon in the woman’s hand. It wasn’t a medieval mace. It was a rubber hammer. Just as dangerous—Kathleen tried to justify her panic—in essence, a more modern medieval mace. She felt somewhat let down and stupid—very stupid.

The woman, sodden, silver-blue hair under an inadequate scarf, wore a trendy trench coat that wasn’t up to the ice and, in place of serviceable boots, three-inch heel pumps.

Kathleen stared at the heels and then back up. The woman was rifling through her overpolished, patent leather purse.

“Is your mother or father in?”

“No. Afraid not.” Oh no. She wasn’t supposed to say that.

Kathleen felt a sense of relief when she recognized the woman then—Leena Schmiester, real estate agent extraordinaire, winner of the 1978 Saint Jude Chamber of Commerce Award for Excellence. She was one of many faces magnetically stuck to the front of the Egan’s fridge.

Saint Jude, the tiny town closest to the Egan home, didn’t have much to choose from for awards such as that. There was one realtor, one independent grocery store, one hair salon, one hardware store that specialized in hunting gear, one drug store that ran the local post office, a jewelry store, and the newest thing, a nail salon. There was one liquor store situated right next to the graveyard and four churches, lined up like soldiers along the highway next to the Saint Jude River. Schmiester looked away. “That’s all right, dear.” She grabbed her car keys with her frosted silver nails and closed up her bag with a harsh snap. “Nasty weather, this. Maine, we should expect it.”

Kathleen put her hands on her hips. “May I help you?”

“I know I’m a day early.” Schmiester shivered and pulled her coat closer around her. “I’m on my way home. Thought I might pound the sign in, but with this ice, it’s impossible.” She gestured to a placard behind her, propped up against the railing on the deck. “This is your key. It’s going right into this box here.” She closed up the lock box that was now hanging on the doorknob, rapidly freezing in the sleet. “Here’s the key your parents gave me. I made an extra copy. Here’s their copy of the contract and my cards. You put them on the counter so the buyers can pick them up. That’s it. That’s all. She’s officially listed.”

Kathleen’s heart stopped. She stepped back as she felt the pain from the bullets of sleet that the wind shot at her. “Pardon me?”

“The house, dear. Your parents listed it.”

For a second, Schmiester stared like a raccoon caught in a garbage can.

“Oh no. They didn’t tell you.” She shrugged and then smiled condescendingly. “I wasn’t supposed to come until tomorrow. They’ll probably call tonight. Let’s hope your line doesn’t come down,” Schmiester said. “I’m sure they’ll phone. Now your parents may have some questions. Tell them to call me.”

Kathleen looked at the phone line. The line was already low and heavy with ice.

Kathleen watched Schmiester’s nose lift a little as she looked down at the railing covered by the eaves of the house and flaked off a piece of peeling paint. It blew away into the storm.

“These stairs could use a touch up,” Schmiester said, and then looking back up, she pushed a wrinkled envelope into Kathleen’s hand and started down the stairs, holding tightly to the glassy railing.

Kathleen watched her slip and slide under the branches of the icy plum trees and over to her vehicle, leaving Kathleen, dimming flashlight and manila envelope in hand, gawking at the ugly sign shining in the rain, mocking her—“For Sale.”