The Key
The Key (C)MMVII Whyte Yote
"I have the key, Father! The key! You can't let them have it!"
The coyote was dying. Robert Maguire had seen enough in his tenure to make him sure of that fact, even if he was unsure about nearly everything else in the world. His words were soft, muted, wet with the same blood that even now was beginning to coagulate on the priest's hands as he held the canine off the rough-hewn stone steps of the church dais.
"My son, we need to get you to a doctor. You shouldn't be talking." Robert was whispering and he didn't know why. The cathedral was silent and closed. Saturday evening Mass had ended more than two hours ago. How this man, bloody and limping and infected with old wounds, had entered into the nave was the furthest thing from his mind. How to get him to a hospital, with no car, was more of a priority.
"Father," said the coyote, who coughed, splattering red all over Robert's frock like a physical representation of what he had been thinking about before this had happened. "No doctors. Please. They can't find me. I--" another coughing fit. "I need your word." And he fell back, breath shallow, upon the dais. His word? What good was his word anymore? Integrity was not a word with which the badger associated much these days.
"Lord, if you're there," he muttered under his breath, watching the coyote's vermilion, matted face, "you had better do something. I can't make this decision on my own." It was a cop-out and he knew it. He knew what he should do, and he was looking for a way out, another thing to blame on God, another sin left to the Father of all Man. Robert had just come out of the confessional, even though the last confession had been almost an hour gone.
"You loved me."
Robert was startled. He looked around the cathedral for the source before realizing it had come from the bleeding, delirious man in his arms. Had he really thought God was speaking to him? "Yes, my child?"
"You loved me when no one else would. I don't blame you. I don't regret a minute." What was this, then? For the ramblings of a dying man, the coyote's eyes were remarkably clear. They held the old badger's own, masked by rimless spectacles, with stoic yellow fire.
"We must get you some help. You're in a bad way." But the coyote thrust into his chest, twisting his frock and pulling him almost on top. His breath was rancid, irony.
"Don't you see? I need to disappear. You don't understand." And Robert didn't understand. It was starting to eat him up inside, knowing he was in the middle of something very important yet unreachable by his mind. "No traces. Give me your word." The coyote coughed again, and a fresh warm torrent ran over the badger's fingers. The wounds were old, but they were deep. The sudden realization that there was no hope to save him fell like a weight heavier than years of Robert's own sinful pride, and he had to fight off the utter despair and focus as he lost this dying soul.
"Take the key. No traces. No one can find you."
"I can do that," he said. He felt like he wanted to do whatever he could to make this work, if these were the last moments, if he could do anything at all. He still didn't understand, but maybe it wasn't up to him. Maybe it would come later. The coyote smiled, showing teeth as red as the rest of his muzzle, and laughed a little. It must have felt good to him, and Robert was happy for that.
"Thank you, Father." The canine convulsed, his whole frame seizing to one side, then the other. Robert was aware of his knees becoming soaked with blood. There was so much of it! "Breast...breast pocket..." Trying to reach into his shirt, the coyote stiffened and fell still. Robert thought that was the end until the hand that was halfway concealed now disappeared behind the tattered and soiled fabric, fumbling and finally making purchase. Jingling followed, and the object fell out of the coyote's grasp. It came to rest two steps below them.
Robert picked it up, gleaming dully from candles scattered throughout the worship space. Gold-plated, it had long since lost its shine to a patina that looked decades old, yet it showed signs of having been cut recently and by a modern machine. The badger turned it over in his fingers, letting its supposed power and mystery hypnotize him, until he noticed the keychain attached to the key.
"Father...do you remember?" the canine wheezed. A glaze was forming over his eyes, a gel thicker than it was supposed to be. There was no longer hope for him. But he had the key, and that was important. Why had yet to be answered. Robert looked at the keychain. It was familiar, and it was definitely older than the key. An old image, a reproduction of a painting from the Middle Ages, of an old polar bear with a flowing white beard and jovial features. A staff he held in one hand. His face was old, sage but youthful and bright.
It was the face of Saint Nicholas. The patron saint of children.
Robert remembered. Over twenty years ago.
The coyote saw his face and smiled. "Father, remember...do me the honor, please..." He grabbed the badger's wrist with wet, limp fingers. "No traces."
"No traces. Of course."
"Thank you. My--" Coughing hard, struggling for breath, because he only needed one more, just one more. "My name is Colson Porter, and I never stopped loving you." And that was the last before his breathing was too shallow. But he was still alive.
Robert sighed. Yes, now he remembered. Some of it he didn't want to. But now the coyote was only thirteen, fresh-faced and ready for the world. So many memories. Most of them beautiful. The priest felt like he should cry, but his capacity would not allow it.
"Oh, Cole," he said, stroking the canine's hand. "I'll take care of everything. Now go be with God."
"Go home," Colson replied. "That sounds nice." The yellow eyes faded, but did not close. It was over, with nary a sound to be heard. Robert folded the coyote's eyes and crossed himself, asking for a strength he knew he could never possess and not knowing whether he would receive help from where he needed it most, in this hour, on this night, for this soul.
* * *
Saint Zita's was new enough to have been built with a large congregation in mind, but still old enough to have its own cemetery, hidden by thick stands of oak and pine, off the back of the building and its kitchen. People still came here to remember the dead, but not to mourn: not a single soul was left who was less than two generations removed from any resident of these plots. Robert Maguire toured the grounds often, sometimes in contemplation, others in sad--almost shameful--regret. The most recently interred was Jacob Goldsmith, born 11 October 1811, died 6 June 1879, Beloved Father, Skilled Horseman, Keeper of Dogs, Former '49er. Not the football kind, though.
The priest bet, as he perspired under his heavy vestments even in the cool night (the thought had never occurred to him to disrobe), the venerable Jacob Goldsmith never had to deal with the kinds of stresses of this modern-day life. He also bet that if Jacob Goldsmith were anything like himself, he would have been beaten and hanged long before now.
The old Chinese man who operated the only hardware store open past six o'clock in the evening gave him an odd look when he had stopped in to purchase more lye than any sane person could ever need, but it was half-hearted at best. It was the look of fleeting interest and pseudo-ambivalence that told the badger You are being suspicious mister, but I'll let you go this time. He muttered something about home-made soaps as a church fundraiser before laying down the cash and sulking, rather guiltily, out the door and back to Saint Zita's, where a grim task awaited him.
Soft earth, made softer by a previous sudden afternoon squall, gave way easily even under Robert's weak arms. With only the intermittent glow from streetlamps to work by, Robert felt very much alone in his efforts, save for the key that kept jingling, announcing its presence in its new home of khaki slacks. Its weight in his pocket, like a rumor waiting to be discovered, reminded him often of the importance of following Cole's request. It also reminded him that beyond this, there was more to do than live and let it be. And if he did nothing, then something would happen by itself. The thought of that, unknown and possibly hideous, scared him into action. He was, after all, a man of fear.
A vague sense that he didn't belong here, in this moment, at the handle of this shovel, permeated the badger's thoughts for the millionth time tonight. Such thoughts occurred to him often nowadays, more during otherwise normal moments, even in the middle of a sermon. The wrong person in the wrong body in the wrong world. But it was easier to do what he knew best and get on with it. Live and let it be, but once again, that argument came around full-circle and ended in a smoldering pile of thought-ashes because of Cole. Cole and his stupid dying and his stupid key.
Serenity, Father, he thought, and he could see clearly again. The floating patches of light that were the white fur on his palms, gripped tightly and resolutely, removing the last cubic feet of earth from a grave that was never to be discovered. Unless the coyote's movements could be traced through witnesses; then, if the inquiries came, he would tell the truth: that he had respected a dying man's last wishes as a priest and a Catholic, a trustee of God himself. (Though God was becoming more and more of a scapegoat than anything else) You want to take possession of the body? Sure, I'll take you to it. I'll fill out a report, too. Anything special he said? No, just asked to be buried where no trace of him would remain.
But some of that was a lie.
This was the inner city. You did what you must to get ahead.
The coyote's body, athletic but frail and heavier than it looked and laid atop a black plastic trash bag, slid easily over the short grass and into the hole. The only thing Robert could think of as he parted the plastic and opened the first container of lye was an exhibit he had been to once, in the German town of Dachau. There was a Holocaust memorial and museum there. Foreboding smothered everything with intangible weight as he had viewed the camp, from the guard towers to the ovens. As he stood in the only remaining barracks, viewing a pile of thousands upon thousands of shoes of the dead, he had spied a photograph in the opposite corner.
It was from 1945, when the Allies had liberated the camp and taken photos as evidence. Hundreds of stickly bodies occupied this photograph, blown up to three-by-four feet. They, just like the shoes, were thin, worn and leathery. And there were hundreds in this corner. It had dawned on Robert then, as he turned around, that the corner he had just left was the very same one as in the photograph. It was an unspeakably dirty feeling, one that made him feel very vulnerable at that moment.
This is what burying Cole felt like.
Forcing himself to go through the motions as if they were practiced, though this was a first, was also unspeakably dirty. But it was the only way he would get through tonight without breaking down. Separated, yes, but not unrelated.
(What do you feel)
After all these years, the coyote had come to him for the end
(I feel really warm. It's nice)
to give him something cherished, something important and bigger than them both
(I like doing it for you)
but whose importance
(But is it wrong)
meant nothing to him.
(Not if you don't want it to be)
He wanted to look away as he poured the lye over Cole's body, but he wanted to make sure not a drop was wasted or spilled. It coated the coyote's fur, pasting it down and even splashing onto the part of his tongue that hung from his muzzle. Robert made quick work of the second container, then the third. He would discard each one separately, each in a place where they wouldn't be noticed, each in a place wherever who found it would just throw it into the system for him. If the cops ever wanted to know, he wouldn't be able to tell them much. As far as he knew, not a single law was being broken. Church ground was immune.
Robert didn't want to wait around for the lye to start working, because he knew exactly what it would do. No traces, that was what it would do. Refilling the hole was a simpler task than digging it out, and took less than half the time. He tamped it down when he was done, but he would have to wait until morning to make sure the ground was level. Then he would throw grass seed and hay over the spot and water it. The grave would hide in plain sight, and Robert doubted a single parishioner would notice.
It was not until he reentered the church, and his office, that the badger noticed how exhausted the burial had made him. It was a reminder of his age, just like a lot of things reminded him of his age these days. The night would end with a cup of orange pekoe tea and a little light reading; these minor yet familiar things helped soften, if not erase, what he had just done.
Candles and Gregorian chant added to his state of mental ease. Though he didn't want to, Robert found his thoughts wandering to the mysterious key and its story. Obviously to Cole, it was the crux of a larger picture, something important and vital and so secretive that the only person he entrusted it to was an old priest from his childhood church. The fact of their former relationship had undoubtedly weighed heavily on his decision, but it had been decades since they had last spoken. Robert found himself wondering how much effort it had taken the coyote to find him. Maybe it was just as easy as coming home.
The sound of the tea water boiling brought him away from his thoughts. Whatever it was, nothing could be done about it tonight. It might even have to wait until Monday lunchtime, because tomorrow was Sunday and he had four masses over which to preside. Looking at his mantel clock, the badger saw it was drawing on eleven-thirty. Much too late for an old man to be up and about. He lit a few candles, poured the tea and settled his bulk into the old armchair that had been a part of this room since he'd been installed at St. Zita's. Its leather, darkened and dulled but never torn, it was itself a reminder of Cole's days here as a choir-boy. In fact, this was the chair where...where...
"Oh, dear," said Robert, and his voice broke. "Oh, Cole." And the night was finally over. The weight of it all settled like a wraith on his shoulders as he sipped his tea, as the tears flowed freely, as Father Maguire mourned the death of the coyote and Death in general. They matted his cheeks, yet he said not a word and made no sound, just stared straight ahead at the reproduction of The Last Supper on the wall opposite the chair. It was good to let it go; he was surprised to find he couldn't remember the last time he'd cried for the sake of crying, for something worth crying about.
He fell asleep that way, his left hand resting on the teacup, the right in his pocket, clutching the key he could not afford to lose yet he would give anything to make it go away, along with its trail of mystery and despair.
FIN
6/1/07