By B. P. Gibson
We were tucked under tattered blankets, my siblings and I, crowded together on one bed in semi-darkness. Our parents’ words sifted through the chipped-plaster wall, rising and falling between hushed whispers and seething anger. Mama begged Papa not to go, even forbid it. Papa argued we would have more money and could fix the truck. We could be deported, Mama told him. I didn’t know what that word meant, but it didn’t sound good. Papa told Mama it would only be this one time. Mama called Tío, Coyote, not with the teasing affection Tío called me Kitten, but with a hiss that sounded like poison. I loved Tío. He took us for ice cream while Papa worked his night job at the restaurante and to the County Fair when Papa worked his weekend job doing yard work. I thought Mama should not be so upset.
I woke as sun rays pierced through the window, and a knock came at the faded door of our one-bedroom apartment. I was delighted to see Tío. I ran to him, and he picked me up and tufted my hair. Mama said nothing, but her expression screamed fury. Papa greeted Tío and leaned into Mama for a kiss before leaving, but she turned away from Papa with spiteful silence. The door closed. Papa was gone. In an instant, Mama spun around, raced to the door, opened it, and leaned out. I thought she was going to say, “I’m sorry,” or “I love you,” but once again, she called with a venomous strike, “Coyote!”
Each night I heard Mama’s muffled sobs. A week passed. A knock, soft and humble, rapped on our door one evening. Mama opened the door, and there stood Tío. I wondered where Papa was, but I didn’t dare ask. Tío hung his head while tears streaked his face. “Lo siento,” I’m sorry, Tío said. He spoke to Mama in hushed tones, so my siblings and I couldn’t hear. Mama cried out with wailing as I had never heard, nor will ever forget.
Years later, on a cold, brisk morning, I saw Tío walk out of the coffee shop I passed on my way to school. It was the first time I saw him since that night Mama wailed. He carried a Danish and sipped from his Starbucks cup while his Stetson boots and hat matched his fashionable jacket. His breath left puffs of fog, as did mine. He didn’t see me, and I didn’t run and hug him like I did when I was little. I shifted my worn backpack, pulled my sweater tight around me, and continued my walk to school. By then, I knew the meaning of that word ― coyote.