Masquerade

Coyotes

19 Coyotes The road winding up to Latigo Drive passed a dozen or so estates and finally dead ended at a California Ranch Style house. Modest by the standards of Bel Air, it sat on a promontory beyond which the ground fell off into a deep chasm. The woman who answered the door was younger and a lot friendlier than I expected. “I haven’t done this before,” she informed me. “Did they explain how it works?” “They told me people in the area offer housing to film students from out of town. Rent free in return for some chores.” She nodded: “I’ll show you the place.” She took my arm and led me on a path that circled behind the house. “Don’t expect too much. It was meant for a chauffeur, like Gloria Swanson’s in Sunset Boulevard. My husband doesn’t even want a house keeper around, so it hasn’t been used.” We crossed a large flagstone patio; off to one side was a hot tub and a swimming pool. A little further on a cottage sat among a stand of eucalyptus trees. “If it suits you the only thing you’d have to do is house sit when we’re on location. My husband’s a director. I’m an actress.” 20 Masquerade There wasn’t much to see: one room, some basic furniture , a tiny bathroom in the back. It reminded me of the cabanas my parents used to rent on the beach in Atlantic City, just big enough if you wanted to lounge out of the sun or set up a table for lunch. I mustered as much enthusiasm as I could: “It suits me fine.” “Good. There’s some silly rule against it but I can put in a hotplate if you want.” I thanked her and she gave me the key. By the time I moved in and unpacked it was late. I thought I’d kind of get my bearings, and went outside. The darkness was eerily quiet like someone with a remote control had pushed the mute button. I couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling that moving here was a mistake. Before going to sleep I looked under the bed. I started doing that around the time mother died. My father saw me one night and scolded me: “The bible tells us to fear only god.” He refers to the bible a lot. This was the first time I’d done it since then. I couldn’t fall asleep. I needed to get my mind off wondering what was agitating me. I tried to remember my mother singing along with the musical teddybear she bought me when I was little. Some kids clutch blankets to feel safe, I slept with my teddy until it was restuffed and stitched so often it was no longer recognizable. It was hard to remember her singing, most of the time she was sad. I used to think of different reasons why, like she didn’t have the son she wanted, she hardly ever saw her parents after they moved to Arizona, she shouldn’t have 21 Edward Lewis given up teaching. Sometimes I thought it was my father. He wasn’t exactly affectionate, at least not that I saw. Mother used to pick me up at school. After she died—I was in third grade—Joe, who drove the delivery truck, brought me to father’s store. He was so tall he had to bend almost in half to get in and out of the car; muscles bulged all over him like the Hulk. I’d try to close my two hands around his arm—halfway was as far as I could get—he’d give the muscle a little tweak, my hands would bounce off like they’d been shot out of a cannon. My favorite thing to do while I waited for father to take me home was go upstairs to the spray room and watch Tony paint old furniture to look like new. I liked the smell of turpentine. I began decorating my room with pictures of animals I cut out of magazines and newspapers. My father thought it was part of my thing with the teddybear but he was wrong. I just wouldn’t tell him why I did it. The second night in the cottage was as bad as the first; if it was going...