Coyote Fork. James Wilson

He laughed again. “I don’t want your appreciation, man. I want you to think why you’re doing this. All I’m saying is, if it’s to destroy Evan Bone, you’ll just end up destroying yourself.”

      And here endeth the first lesson. It was a struggle not to say, I didn’t come here for a crash course in pop psychology.

      “From what you’ve told me,” I said, “I’d have thought you’d think it was a public service.”

      I could hear the starchiness in my own voice. He caught it too. He smiled.

      “Well, no question, people need to realize what Evan’s doing. They need to resist it. That’s the whole reason I’m talking to you. But destroying’s what he does. You know, by saying, I’m totally cool, and the other guy’s totally evil, and I’m going to rub his nose in his own shit till he admits it. That’s not doing Evan any good. It’s not doing the other guy any good. It’s not doing anyone any good.”

      And here endeth the second lesson. I gave a perfunctory nod.

      “Not convinced, huh?” he said. “It doesn’t do any good because it’s not real. The world just ain’t divided up like that, a couple suburban yards with a neat white picket-fence between them. There’s a man-size chunk of evil in you. And a big streak of cool in the other guy.” He touched his sternum. “You wouldn’t believe the garbage I found down here when I looked. A victim, pure as the driven snow: that’s what I was expecting to find. Instead I come face to face with a greedy little fuck, who took 150 million bucks from the guy who stole his idea, in exchange for keeping his mouth shut. And who’s spent the whole time since then trying to hide from the consequences. Like what happened to your friend Anne or Hazel Voss.” He turned to look at me. “I’m telling you, man, it’s hard. A whole lot easier to do what Evan did—what I did till I got sick: refuse to join the dots. That way, you don’t need to accept responsibility. Except one day, it’ll catch up with you. And then you’re going to have to pay the price.”

      He jerked up a piece of grass and abstractedly tied it into a circle.

      “But you do what you do right,” he went on, after a few seconds, “and join the dots for him, and maybe that’d help him.” He raised his head again. “I remember something I read once. Something a wise man said: To understand everything is to forgive everything.”

      “The wise man in question was Tolstoy.”

      “Is that right?”

      I nodded. “Pierre. In War And Peace. ‘Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner.’”

      “You’re kidding me.” He started to laugh, then stopped and turned sharply. A woman was coming down the path towards us, choosing her steps with balletic precision to avoid dropping the tray she was carrying. She was younger than he was, short and big-hipped, with Spanish-dark skin and thick black hair unmarked by white.

      “Hi,” she said. “Did I time this OK?”

      Crothers nodded. She balanced the tray on a log and held her hand out.

      “I’m Montserrat. Pleased to meet you.”

      Her smile. Radiant would be the obvious word. But like all off-the-peg descriptions, it runs the risk of slipping by unnoticed. So dip your fingers into the water and fish it out. There. Now add to the brilliance a kind of electric jolt, such as you get when you accidentally touch an un-insulated cable.

      “Robert,” I said. “Or Rob. Or Bob. Or a chap with a silly accent. Take your pick.”

      She laughed and turned towards Crothers. “So you’re done?”

      “Pretty much.”

      “You told him about Beth?”

      For the first time, he seemed ill at ease. He grimaced, then hooked a hand over his scalp and scratched it, so cartoon-characterish you expected to see a thought bubble materialize above his head saying: Thinks. Finally he looked at me and said,

      “You know how this lady came into my life?”

      I shook my head.

      “You tell him.”

      “I wrote my car off,” she said. “Just there.” She pointed up the slope towards the road. “I wasn’t hurt bad. Just a few scratches. But I was shaken up pretty good. And the car obviously wasn’t going any place again. Except the wrecking yard.” She smiled at Crothers and impulsively touched his arm. “So this guy, he heard the noise and came out to see what had happened. And”—pinching the front of her blouse and pulling it taut—“look what he found. And I’ve been here ever since.”

      Crothers nodded. “Goooood karma.” He poured the coffee and handed me a cup. “You have to learn to trust that stuff. So if she thinks it’s OK, I guess it’s OK. Sit down again. I’ll tell you about Beth. It doesn’t make me look good. But what the hell.”