The Skylark
By: Rufus Quentin
It was a rare kind of morning in which the ambient drone of the swamp unit didn’t have to stifle the kitchen with its incessant hum. Peter, Paul, and Mary could play in comparative clarity on the old Phillips by the window. A moderate breeze billowed thin white curtains. Miranda stood by the gas stove wearing her singed violet apron, with a wooden handled spatula in hand.  Eggs sizzled in the pan. White desert light shone in, striking her fair brown fur in stark luminosity, exposing luster he hadn’t noticed in quite some time.
“Did you hear,” she said, scraping the bottom of the pan, “Nancy and James are getting married.”
An incomprehensible tone vocalized behind the colored script of the Desert Star’s Sunday Edition. Hector glanced over the edge of pages and murmured a distracted, “is that so?” 
She continued, “they’ve only been together a little over a year, she tells me,” a subtle remnant of southern dialect apparent in her voice. “They’re having their ceremony in Las Vegas in June. We’re all invited, she says.”  
The voice behind the paper uttered an affirmative hum.
“She said James got her a diamond engagement ring, he had it financed at Petersons on Main Street.”
“You pitching copy now?” he said, turning a page. 
She sighed and fell silent. The song on the radio ended, succeeded by a Merle Haggard piece. Miranda immediately changed the station to a 1950’s song reminiscent of Les Paul’s twang. 
“I think we should go.” She said, taking the eggs off the heat.
“Last time we went I got chewed out for losing too much money.”
“You’ll rue it, if it happens again, Heck.”
“I’ll rue?” he asked.
“And how,” she said, continuing in a softer, wistful tone. “Can’t afford to lose a dime these days.”
“Doesn’t seem like I have a choice in this do I?” he said, looking off the newspaper pages. “So I’ll be the gentlemen and oblige you the favor.”
“Good boy.” She said and smiled. “The gentleman can have his breakfast.” 
She laid down a plate of scrambled eggs upon the amber speckled laminate kitchenette. A basket containing neatly cut triangles of toast landed in the center of the table after. He folded the Sunday newspaper, revealing the bulk of his ursine form.  
“Jeffry!” she called in a melodic tone, fully utilizing her native dialect, “Breakfast!”
Seconds later the turbulent patter of bare feet stampeded down the hall, padding off the shag carpet onto the linoleum kitchen floor. The pajama clad cub appeared, a rush of wake blew the folded paper off the table and onto the floor. A plastic sheriff’s star appeared pinned to his blue and white outfit. “Morning Mama, morning Papa,” the cub said without stopping.  He approached the ochre stepping stool and pushed it toward the wooden cupboard.  
“Now Jeffry,” Hector said, picking up the fallen paper, “your Mama cooked this morning.”
“I know Papa bear. Smells good, Mama. I’m almost to the prize though.”
The cub, upon climbing to the cupboard, selected a box of sugar chex depicting a cartoon ghost. Instinctively he produced a bowl and a carton of milk out of the avocado faux wood paneled refrigerator.
“Do have some eggs, dear,” his mother said, refreshing the two cups of coffee upon the table.
“Ya, Mama.” 
The cub, splashing a bit of milk, prepared his cereal, peering into the box. “There’s no toy in this?” he said, visibly disheartened.
“No dear,” his mother said, taking her seat at the table.
“You usually get the ones with toys? Did they forget it?”
“Not this time, dear.”
“Aww why? I always look forward to the toy.”
Miranda cast an accusatory glance toward the other bear who tried to ignore the gesture by delving into his meal. “Bon Appetite,” she said, with abrupt curtness intended for the other bear.
 The cub, with closed eyes, reverently lowered head and clasped paws spoke, “Bless us O Lord, for these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ our Lord we pray. Amen.”
Averting their attention from to the cub, they listened to him pray, genuflect, and begin his meal. Hector looked at Miranda, confused. She only stared at him with a look of helplessness. Both uttered not another word. The radio continued to play, shifting between song and commercial. A comfortable vernal breeze ventilated the kitchen. Columns of light poured in around them through the open windows and doors. The scent of sage, brush, and dust combined with the familiar domestic aromas. 
“The couple in room seven left at dawn.” Miranda said, speaking over the weather report. An implicit matter-of-factness characterized her tone. “They were only here a few hours.”
Hector shook his head, picking at his plate.
“Anyway. Room seven has a hole in the wall now. They slipped an apology under the door in the office, but nothing else.”
 “Let me guess, cash customer?”
“You know it.” 
“I’ll take care of it,” Hector said, reaching for the toast.
“Thanks dear.”
“Did we have any other tenants last night?”
“What do you think?”
“Weekends used to be busy for us.”
“I don’t know if you could call ‘em busy. Better maybe. Not busy. Even your Mom and Dad used to complain that no one used this road anymore.”
“Dad kept it alive as long as he lived didn’t he?”
“Half the businesses that were here when your dad died are gone. Just boarded up shacks from here to Needles.”
“We’re still here, babe.”
Miranda cast him a scornful look, “your welcome,” she said, dropping her fork on her empty plate. 
“Mama,” interrupted Jeffry, watching the female bear stand.
“What is it, dear?” 
“Can I go to church today?” the cub said, with uncharacteristic meekness.
“Why would you want to do that?” 
“Matty invited me.”
“Well, if that’s how you want to spend your morning. If you get ready fast your father might be able to take you to the eleven o’clock in time,” she said, glancing at the wall clock hanging on a braided rope. 
“Thanks Mama,” the cub said, departing the table with the same turbulent velocity with which he had arrived, leaving an empty bowl and a puddle of spilt milk.
“Where’d he get that from?” Hector asked, visibly perturbed.
“Beats me. Not from around here, that’s for sure,” she said, wiping the table clean with a wash cloth.
“That’s probably just your side of the family showing through.”
“What’s my family got to do with this?”
“Ain’t your mom a minister’s daughter?”
“They haven’t even called us in weeks. They’re still mad at you. Anyway, I think its fine that Jeffry’s taken a sudden interest in faith. Maybe it’ll teach him a thing or two about family. Lord knows he’s not finding that here.”
“What do you call what we have right here?”
“Something’s missing.”
“Not this again,” he said, pushing back from the table.
“I didn’t say a word,” she said, holding up her paws dismissively. 
The bear got to his feet, pushing the chair against the table. Miranda sighed, reaching for his empty plate. She stood by the sink beside the radio no one seemed to pay attention to. “Go help Jeffry,” she said in a meek tone as she ran water over the dishes. “He’ll be upset with you if he’s late.” 
“Miranda,” he said.
“What is it?”
A moment passed. ”Nothing,” he said, “I’ll be right back.” He turned and vanished down the dark wood paneled hall.
The cub stood in his room struggling himself into a tiny black suit pants. Hector leaned his shoulder against the wall. An elaborate erector contraption resembling a crane-draw-bridge-steam-engine towered precariously beside his bed. Various other, mostly western playthings lay scattered about the small room with bulky furniture.
“How ya doing chief?” said Hector. 
The cub didn’t appear too frustrated, despite the obvious struggle with his button down shirt. A tie lay pre-knotted, resembling an exotic hangman’s noose upon the bed.
“Fine.” He said. “Need help with the stupid tie,” implying the tangled fabric crumbled on the bed.
Hector waded through the playthings and sat, making the bedsprings creak beneath his weight. He set to work untying the elaborately construed knot. “It helps if this thing’s on you first,” he said.
The cub, tucking in the loose ends of his collared shirt asked, “wanna come with me, Dad?”
“To church? Nah. Not today.” 
“Don’t ya wanna be saved?”
Hector chuckled, “I’ve always found my own way to save myself.”
“Matty says the pastor can save people.”
“He’ll have to save me from your mom first, she’ll be mad at me if I don’t do my share of the work around here.”
“Will you come with me some other time? Mom says she wouldn’t mind going.” 
“Maybe,” Hector said, successfully straightening the ribbon of fabric. “Turn up your collar and hold still.”
The cub obeyed. “Let me know if this is too tight” he said, attempting a half-Windsor. 
“Did I tell you Miss Hoover gave me an A on my spelling test,” said the cub, radically changing the subject and beginning to fidget in place.
“Good for you, chief.”
“Mom kinda helped though.”
“I noticed,” Hector said, beginning his second attempt with the Windsor-knot. “Your mother is smarter than us both. I was never so good at spelling when I was your age.”
“Did Grandma ever help you?” he said
“No, but Grandpa did sometimes. He used to read to me a lot. A bunch of old war stories. I think he read all the books to me that are sitting in the living room.”
“All of them?”
“Pretty much.”
“Can you read me one too?”
“Sure,” Hector said distracted as he continued to struggle with the tie.
“Which one?”
“You get to pick one out.”
“All of ‘em?”
“You can pick one tonight.  Is this too tight?” Hector said, upon his third and lastly successful attempt.
“So’kay:”
“Can you tie your shoes?”
 “Yea dad, I’m 9 years old. I can tie my shoes!”
“Fair enough then. Be ready in a few minutes. I’ll see what we can do about the hole in room seven before we go.” The springs squealed in relief as Hector rose to his feet, leaving the cub to struggle with his well-polished dress shoes. 
Hector paused by the door on his way outside. He watched Miranda drape her apron on a wall hook in the pantry-closet. She wore an old floral dress with white accents he hadn’t seen her wear in quite some time. She looked good in it, he thought, his attention drawn to her curves delightfully accentuated by her clothing. “You look good,” he said, standing awkwardly in the doorframe.
Miranda looked at herself and chuckled. “Yea, right.”
“I mean it.”
“Sure you do. Are you going to wear your new shirt when you play in plaster?”
“I’ll be careful.” 
“Good, ‘cus you only have one nice white shirt and it’s on you.”
“I’ll watch it, babe. How big is the hole?”
“Not too big. I looked in on it. I haven’t turned the room yet though. Don’t really want to either, it’s a foul one.  You better hurry. You both ought to be on the road soon.”
“Sure, babe.”
Hector passed through the wide open door and into the vibrant bright light. White sunlight pierced the moderate air with radiant warmth, striking him the moment he stepped out of the shade onto the white gravel path. Quartz sparkled in the rough stones. Recent rains rendered the rocky hillsides green with new growth. Agave in full bloom jutted skyward out of the low-lying shrubs. The perfect time of year, he thought, inhaling deeply of the dry air, fragrant with sage and creosote. 
Gravel crushed beneath his feet as he traveled towards the equally white lodge of the motel complex, past the worn out horseshoe’s dugout. The path led to and comprised the narrow parking strip in front of the one story, fifteen room structure. A faded atomic modern sign towered above the simple building. A bold arrow pointed downward. “Skylark Motel” stood in stylized neon letters visible for miles along the straight stretch of featureless road. Color TV and free cable advertised stood written in no less apparent emphasis beneath the name. Two cars, both their own, sat parked on lot to suggest occupancy.
Hector paused beside the perhaps two-story tall sign. He squinted as he followed the metal pillar skyward. Paint peeled away from numerous rust spots. Hawk droppings bespeckled the sheet-plastic letting. He walked forward, stepping over the miscellaneous shrubs and grasses sprouting at the base of the pillar and placed his paw upon the metal column. The unsympathetic metal conducted heat into his broad paw-pads. 
Hector heard the swift patter of little shoes on gravel behind him. He turned away from the pillar and strode leisurely toward room seven. The cub soon appeared behind him, stepping onto the cement slab veranda of the hotel structure. “There ya are,” he said, hardly panting.
“Looking sharp”, Hector said laconically. 
“Ready to go?”
“Will be in a minute. Gonna take a look at the damage first.”
Identical doors with stylized brass numbers passed in descending order. Hector, producing a jangling key-ring approached the white aluminum door labeled in with a crooked cursive seven. The door creaked open, the interior appeared otherwise normal save for tousled bed sheets.  Hector stepped in, instinctively flipping on the lights as he entered the door. The scent of stale cum wafted his direction. “Wait here, kiddo.” He said, implying the doorframe, pointing in the general direction of the outdoors. A fist-sized hole gaped bleakly near the headboard. 
The cub obediently obeyed, meandering off over the gravel. Hector approached the hole in the drywall, noticing only then the soaking wet carpet beneath his feet. “Dammit”, he said looking at his work boots and the saturated low-pile beneath them. He immediately strode to the bathroom to find the sink cracked, water dripping amply downward. 
“What’s this?” came Miranda’s voice behind him.
“Fuckers had a little more fun in here than we thought.”
“Dammit!” she reiterated as she inadvertently strode into the same sopping fabric. “Dammit! Dammit!”
Hector returned, wading through the half-inch deep indoor lake. Miranda gesticulated at the bed, at the puddle, at the hole, her voice sounded as if on the verge of breaking. She slammed the door to the outside shut and sought out the only seemingly sterile object in the room, a padded wooden desk chair and sat down in it with her face in her paws. She trembled as she stilled her breathing, inhaling deeply of the stale sex laden air. Hector stood steadfast. She appeared as if she began to sob. 
“I don’t wanna do this anymore Heck,” she said in a wavering voice.
Hector stood stock still, “Do what?” he asked after a moment of hesitation. Miranda looked beyond her paws with a gaze of tear laden furor. 
“What do you think?” She all but barked, “I don’t want to turn this bed, I don’t want to clean this room, I don’t want to work 40 hours a week in a thankless job downtown on top of the work I do around here just to watch this place die.”
In his low calm voice Hector spoke, “hey, I can take care of this.”
“You don’t understand”, she said, allowing her intimidating qualities she tried so hard to control to emerge. With her brow furrowed in absolute resolution, she looked up, cocked her head and spoke, “I want to go home.” 
Hector stood inexpressive upon the soaked carpet. He leaned his girth against the stucco wall and averted his gaze. “We’ve been over this.”
“You promised me we’d go back when your mother passed away. That was four years ago!” said Miranda, her voice nearing a shout. 
“I can’t just leave everything my dad worked for and pack up! This is what he wanted! This is all he could leave us.” Hector said, matching the tone. “Everything we have is here.”
“But for how long, Heck? Not forever, certainly not much longer.” 
Hector swallowed his reply.
“Just go. Take Jeffry. I’ll clean this mess.”
“Babe…”
“Shut up. Go. You can stop at Glenn’s for new fixtures. Just don’t spend all afternoon there again.”
 “Sure,” he said, tenuously walking to the door. He looked back, putting his paw on the doorknob. “Sorry,” he said in departing.
Stark sunlight poured in, his tall, broad frame vanished into the light. Jeffry had climbed into the bed of the Dodge d100, preoccupying himself with the contents of Hector’s toolbox stored there. 
“Get out of there!” shouted Hector, slowly striding towards the vehicle, keys in hand, “you’ll get yourself dirty.”
The cub wordlessly heaved the back window open and snaked himself into the cab. His diminutive, black clad figure tumbled into the passenger side seat. Hector joined the cub, sitting on the cracked vinyl bench seat which lacked any sort of seat belt. The interior smelled of stale tobacco resin. The car turned over with a raspy sequence of vibrations that shook the dashboard and the bench itself. “Hold on,” reminded Hector as he swung the truck backward and onto the old highway. Dust billowed off the gravel.
“What happened?” asked the cub.
“Where?”
“In the room.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why did they make a hole in the wall?”
“Ahh. Some people just don’t know respect.”
“You think they did it on purpose?”
“Probably not. But they could have been more careful.”
“Are you going to have to fix it?”
“Yep.”
“Can I help again?”
“Why not? Later on. By the way, I’m going to swing by Glenn’s.”
“Glenn’s creepy. That place smells weird.”
“Glenn’s a good guy. He helps us out a lot.”
“I know. Still.”
The cub grew quiet, preoccupied with the unusual strip of green along both sides of the road. Yellow poppies and magenta dahlias among other desert wildflowers sprouted in ample quantities, blanketing the expanse of the desert valley in vibrant hues. The verdant patches gave the desolation an uncanny quality. A rare signifier of life stretched as far as the distant mountainside and around high desert outcroppings of barren stone. Hector rested his muscular arm out the open window. Wind fluttered his fur. Clear openness stretched in all directions on either side of cracked gray ribbon of road.
They came upon Taverton Diesel in a stretch of unincorporated road on the west side of Needles. An old 1930’s service station thrice diversified into hardware and miscellaneous necessities and salvage yard that had its beginning as Don Taverton’s, Glenn’s uncle, personal automobile collection, as Hector once explained his cub. The shaggy furred coyote strode toward them as they pulled beneath the station awning beside the more contemporary pumps of the unleaded age. A subtle limp gave character to his gait. His dusty jumpsuit bore streaks of oil and perhaps even encrusted spots of blood. The ankles were frayed down to his bare foot-paws.
“Well look who we have here today?” Glenn said, his scarred upper lip curling into a smile. The coyote put his arms and elbows on the passenger side window and leaned into the cab. The cub recoiled slightly, scooting over to his father. “Ain’t the little one looking sharp? What’s the occasion?”
The cub shot a heavy browed stare at the coyote, remaining otherwise mute. “Church,” said Hector, speaking for the lad. “The young one’s gonna hear the word for us today.”
“You don’t say? A little young for that stuff ain’t he?”
“His call.”
“Get it from his mother?”
“That’s what I thought. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I’ve spent Sundays in worse places.”
“I hear ya.”
“So what can I do for ya today?”
“Fixtures. Some hooker broke a sink last night.”
“Can do. Gonna have to do some digging though,”
“Fine by me, I’ll swing by in about twenty. Gonna drop the cub here off.”
“I’ll see what I can find.”
Hector raised his paw in a brief wave. The truck rolled off down the road leaving the coyote beneath the awning. The cub scooted back over and began to stare at his father. Hector averted his eyes off the road for a moment, feeling eerily pierced by the glance. “What is it?” Hector said.
The cub, unusually silent, sat wide eyed.
“What?” Hector asked again, throwing his glance back down at the cub beside him.
 “What’sa matter with him?” the cub finally said.
“What do you mean?”
The cub shrugged.
“There ain’t anything a matter with him really.”
“I donno.” 
“Be nice to him. He’s been through a lot and he’s probably my best friend.”
“What about Mama?”
“She’s my friend too.”
They approached the half adobe, half tope painted cinder block chapel on the outskirts of Needles, tucked away down a long narrow road lined with oleander, mesquite, and California palms. Hector turned into the long procession of cars and other trucks that languidly idled down the cracked concrete path as if they were without a care in the world. The cub fidgeted beside him. Hector resisted the urge to flatten whatever granny in her Lincoln Continental held up the line. They eventually approached the eclectic house of prayer accentuated with a lining of diminutive cholla and bonita cacti. 
The cub swung open the door and leaped out no sooner had Hector come to a stop adjacent the open hinged oak doors of the church. He took a few steps, turned back, approached the car and said, “bye dad”
“See you in an hour,” he said. “If I’m late, wait right here.”
“See ya,” said the cub, forgetting to close the car door, who instead vanished into the dark of the indoors amidst a dozen or so elderly parishioners.
Hector strained to shut the door himself and backtracked through the undersized, over utilized parking lot and down the oleander and palm path. Despite having to flatten a few plants, he skirted the oncoming line of cars along the narrow road and managed to find his way back into the desert. The battered, cracked remnants of old route 66 took him back the way he came, through the low-lying springtime regrown and auburn Californian hillsides. A rather pleased expression appeared on his normally indifferent muzzle. 
This time the coyote was nowhere to be found. He pulled his truck back underneath the awning, in front of the shop door. He slid his girth onto the ground and wandered into the glaring white light. Hector squinted with his paw to his brow into the comparatively dim interior of the workshop. A 64 Wolfsburg special stood raised on quad hydraulic jacks. Glenn was not among his tools. The door to the office and impromptu hardware store bore a “Closed, be back later” sign in italic letters.
The tone of rustling metal distinguished itself sharply from the roaring quiet. Hector followed the tone around back through a partially opened chain link gate. A jackrabbit scurried off beneath the chassis of some vehicle that had long since driven its last mile. Glenn, perceptive of the footsteps in the sand, limped from behind a half-parted out VW bus with faded peace sign and strode in Hector’s general direction.
“Welcome back!” Glenn shouted, “Heard ya coming from a mile away.”
“Howdy,” said Hector, extending his paw in an overdue colloquial greeting.
“Cub off giving praise?”
“And how.”
“I think I found what you needed,” said Glenn nodding toward a neatly arrayed line-up of chrome faucets and pipe fittings lying in the sand. “Time for a beer?”
Hector nodded in the direction of the fittings then again back at Glenn. “Sure,” he said, “got nowhere to be but here.”
The bear followed the coyote into the unlocked back door of his hybrid, jack-of-all-trades shop. Glenn absconded with two cans of Falstaff from an old refrigerator beside the makeshift countertop amidst two isles of household and automotive hardware fittings. Hector caught the can tossed precariously his way.
“Not bad for a wet lunch.” The bear said.
“You’re welcome,” said the coyote, peeling off the pull-tab lid and tossing it in the general direction of a waste basket for it to clatter on the floor.
“Plans?” asked the bear, repeating the action to the same degree of success.
“Work. Nada.” The coyote shrugged.
A moment passed. Both looked downcast at the duel pull-tabs beside two others. A car rushed by on the road, drawing neither their attention. “Do you wanna pull a favor?” the bear asked.
The coyote looked up, a sly smile returning to his scarred muzzle. “Depends,” he said, with intentional hesitation. “Whose turn is it?”
“That would be yours.”
“Damn.” Glenn said, averting his gaze, the smile vanished. “Can’t convince ya to switch? Just this once?”
“You know the rules.”
“Aw hell. You sure it’s my turn?”
The bear nodded, resolutely.
“Hell. Why not? It’s been a while.” With that the coyote emptied his beer in a long sip, slamming the empty can down on the corner of his crowded table.
The bear smiled, enacting the same gesture.
“Now?” said the coyote, upon whipping his muzzle.
“Time’s wasting.”
The coyote threw his muzzle in the direction of the back door. The bear followed the limping coyote out of the shop and through the salvage yard past about a half dozen rows of cars in various states of disassembly. They perceived no sound aside from crushed sand underfoot and the rush of wind. They approached Glenn’s trailer, festooned with cords of light bulbs supported by wooden polls. A polished cement slab underneath a makeshift corrugated plastic awning comprised a shuffleboard track. 
Glenn walked up the wooden steps and ushered Hector in with a performed bow. “Do you need anything?” the coyote asked as the door swung shut behind him. 
“I’m good,” said the bear, catching up behind him.   
The coyote smiled and disappeared wordlessly down the narrow hall into his bedroom. “Gimme a minute,” he said.
The bear sat on a mostly broken down sofa covered in various blankets. The sound of a swamp unit turned on in the other room. An old black and white television set with crooked rabbit ears stood adjacent from the sofa. Various photographs in color and in black and white hung above the small-screen television. Hector recognized Glenn’s uncle. The stern faced image of Glenn’s father and mother. Both Ex-wives, though he had only met one and a childhood image of himself beside the skinny coyote. A velvet lined glass case contained several medals and service ribbons including the distinctive red, yellow, green and one of purple. A cannabis plant shrouded in aluminum foil grew under a sunlamp in a corner. 
The trailer appeared relatively neat. Glenn had kept the place together since his uncle’s passing. Nonetheless a thick film of dust and tobacco resin had accumulated on nearly everything. An overflowing ashtray lay beside the couch next to two empty beer cans. Hector turned on the television as he waited. He received two channels in viewable clarity providing him with the choice of a Days of our Lives rerun or a newscast informing of a mass exodus of South Vietnamese to Saigon. Hector quickly turned off the television. 
Glenn reappeared moments later, standing in the portal to the corridor that led to his bedroom. The coyote leaned against the corner of the narrow shoulder width hallway. He had relieved himself of his shirt, swinging it idly by his side. The upper half of his dusty jumpsuit draped limply from around his waist. Unkempt tufts of unusually long fur crisscrossed his sinewy body merging shades of gray, tawny, and dirty white. A thin line of bare skin where fur refused to regrew stretched permanently etched into his left flank. The coyote’s tail terminated a fingers length short of where it should have.
“You ready?” he asked, letting his shirt fall to the floor. 
The bear grunted as he got to his feet, vocalizing no other reply. He slowly ambled past the coyote, beer in hand, angling himself down the narrow hallway. His left hand began unfastening the buttons at his collar. The coyote followed behind him with wordless understanding. Hector shrugged himself out of his shirt upon reaching the comparative spaciousness of Glenn’s bedroom. He peeled his bleached white undershirt off his chest exposing his ample belly. He tossed both garments against the wall one after the other, beneath an erotic playboy calenderer depicting Miss March 1975. Images of ex-wives and other trysts hung framed upon the wood paneling. 
 Hector sat upon the unmade bed ignoring the twisted and tangled sheets. Long dark brown fur covered his chest, belly and rather muscular arms. His belly protruded beyond his belt, even as he reclined into the tobacco scented sheets. A telling glance communicated a command. The coyote, standing shirtless at the door of the small chaotically disorganized bedroom, smiled as he understood the implied message.
“Not taking our time are we?” said the coyote, kneeling down on the floor beside the bed.
The bear hummed in affirmation.
“Just like the old days then,” he said, sliding his paws beneath the warm fold of the bear’s overhanging belly, to grapple with the vaguely cowboyesque belt-buckle. 
“Except my dad’s not around to shoot us dead if we’re caught.”
“You got your woman for that now.”
The bear hummed a less certain reply.
The bear’s belt rattled open. A button and fly flung open audible apart from the drone of the cooler. Hector obliged the coyote with a helpful shift allowing Glenn to tug the bear’s frayed jeans down to his ankles. The canine’s fingers slid beneath the elastic of plus-sized briefs enabling them to follow suit. The musk of ursine maleness quickly became apparent to them both as the final covering receded down the bear’s legs. Brown furry sheath snapped into view. His duel-lobed pouch hung naturally beneath. 
“It’s been a while. The Miss still hasn’t changed her mind.” said Hector, peering over the fur-tufted curvature of his tummy obstructing the view of his masculinity.
“That’s fine,” said Glenn, partaking of the sight unavailable to Hector. Hardly an instant of hesitation passed before the coyote’s muzzle darted between the bear’s legs, making contact with the supple intimacy loosely pendent before him. Hector felt rather than saw the canid tongue lap the furry exterior of his maleness, observing only the twin tips of the coyote’s back-swept ears. The warm sensation of saliva seeping through his fur, coating his intimate flesh quickly spread across his entire pubic region. The bear emitted a resonant hum of satisfaction concordant with the swamp-units persistent done.
The coyote bestowed well practiced licks upon the familiar features of his friend’s anatomy. The rather pungent scent of ursine maleness quickly trumped the senses as his nose buried itself in the coarse brown pubic fur beneath the bear’s tummy, well into the taboo regions of intimacy. Unpleasant, were it not for the accustomed modality unique to the bear, associated since puberty with delightful transgression at hand. The taste of bear translated bitter on his tongue as it caressed orbs, sheath, and gaping sheath-slit. His scruffy, scarred muzzle eagerly embraced the sizable orbs, suckling upon them heedless size or musk. 
Slurping proceeded from the damp caress of tongue and lips on moistened flesh, hidden from the bear’s view. Encouraging hums reverberated through Hector’s body, clearly pleased with the delicate touch of a muzzle on neglected sexuality. Pleasant ache throbbed deep within him, pulsing through all that made him male. The coyote felt the telling quiver through the furred sheath pressed against his muzzle. His whiskers sensed the rush of warmth through the furry pouch and the indicative swell that followed. 
As Glenn’s tongue swirled around the saliva dampened sack carefully concealed behind lips against fangs, the ridged tip of Hector’s arousal appeared, pressing free of the stretched sheath-slit. The coyote observed the crimson point slip from the matted brown pouch immanently close to the licentious brush of his muzzle. The emergence of his friend’s intimate anatomy drew the coyote’s attraction. The slick canine tongue approached and inevitably brushed the ursine maleness before it vanished past pinched lips. 
Hector sighed and shuddered. He headily sent an energetic thrust through his hips, towards the coyote’s muzzle. Ripples coursed through his oversized paunch. The coyote accommodated the motion, feeling the surplus of belly press against his head. The familiar shape of the bear’s arousal slid along his tongue, continuing to grow into its full, venous form. His tongue brushed the unusual concentric ridges culminating in a tapered point. The narrow shaft followed past his lips, progressively wider as it emerged from sheath and entered past lips. The coyote, practiced with his friend’s dimensions, accommodated his every inch easily down to the bunched sheath. Hector leaned forward, resting on his elbows. He gasped, peering over his belly, observing the commencing rise and fall of the coyote’s ears and experiencing the delightful contact of tongue and saliva along his ridged girth. “Good boy,” he whispered, straining eagerly to watch the coyote’s motions. A teasing caress of tongue on ridged cock-tip came in reply causing the bear to shudder and wince with pleasure.  
The taste grew even more distinct as Glenn suckled the source of the bear’s musk. His muzzle began to slide up and down the ursine shaft, into the folds of fur and flesh of the bear’s lap. His whiskers collided with the bear’s pubic fur and tugged along the tufts of belly fur. His lips caressed the now wet shaft while his tongue cradled the girth between them, occasionally lapping over the ridges of cock-tip, teasing the pee-slit on the innermost ridge. An action he knew would elicit favorable response, which came in the form of lustful thrusts, utterances of pleasure, and the subsequent flow of bear-pre.
The bear hummed so long and deep it transitioned into a reverberating growl that shook the bed itself. A blissful sigh succeeded the tone. “That’ll do,” he said almost reluctantly, listening to the audible slurps.
Glenn pulled his head off the bear’s arousal and looked up over the curvature of the bear’s belly. His ears demurely swept back. “You sure you don’t want me to finish?”
“Sorry, I want you on your knees this time.”
“If you say so,” he said, helping himself to a bead of ursine pre forming at the slit on the innermost ridge of Hector’s cock. The coyote then stood up on trembling knees. He grit his teeth in a hiss of pain, clutching his upper thigh. 
“You okay?” asked Hector, rolling to his side over the gnarled sheets.
“Yea.” The coyote said, “old wound.”
The coyote then fumbled with his own belt, trembling as he unlatched its buckle on his already half disrobed jumpsuit. He allowed the dusty suit to fall. The belt rattled as it hit the ground. His military issue boxers revealed a telling bulge, hardly able to conceal what lay beneath. Glenn coaxed the boxers off as well. His canine arousal already stood proudly emerged from his sheath. He stood naked, kicking aside the bunched clothing. A scar even larger than that on his flank crossed his thigh. His lanky, scruffy body crawled onto the bed alongside the equally naked bear. 
They looked at one another in total nudity. They smiled. Glenn leaned towards the bear, who leaned toward him. They kissed, quickly and cautiously.
“We don’t have too much time,” said Glenn nodding behind him in the direction of the analog flip-clock radio beside yet another overflowing ashtray sitting upon his nightstand.
“I don’t think I’ll be long,” said Hector, able to look down at his arousal.  “You know what to do.” 
Glenn rolled from his side onto his knees. He lifted his truncated tail and looked back, watching the bear brace himself onto his knees and scoot behind him. As Hector troubled himself behind the scruffy coyote, Glenn reached into his nightstand drawer, blindly grabbing for a tube of lubricant. After a moment of fumbling he found it and tossed it toward the bear. Hector combed the fur on the coyote’s rear with his claws, better exposing the bare patch of canine tail-hole. Hector smiled, salaciously inspecting the discrete aperture directed toward him. The bear’s fingers spread apart the coyote’s crevice, further divulging the reddish shades of passage just beyond the puckered exterior. The bear stroked his saliva-slick shaft, coating it with an additional layer of lubricant. A broad leathery paw-pad did the same to the coyote’s personal flesh, a claw carefully dipped into the opening before retreating, returning the ridged ursine cock-tip directed at the slick surface. 
“Careful Heck,” said the coyote, “you’re a big one.”
The bear offered no reply; merely a comforting pat on the coyote’s presented behind. The paw slipped around and took hold of him along his scarred flank while his other guided the bear’s maleness beneath the coyote’s tail. Its tip slid along his crevice and against the bare slit of the coyote’s intimacy. The broad ridged head rubbed slickly against the wrinkled opening merging lube with ursine pre. A thrust of force propelled the wide tip through the stretched canine tail-ring and into the supple passage. Glenn hissed through his teeth and shuddered, muttering, “easy boy! What I say?”
“Nothing I haven’t seen you manage,” said Hector, bringing his paw around to the coyote’s knotted maleness, caressing from shaft to sack with slick paw-pads.
“It’s been a while for me too, Heck. Easy.” 
A moment passed before the bear leaned into the coyote. Rather than his accustomed thrust, he let his weight drive the more slender shaft through the tense tail-hole. Supple walls of the coyote’s interior parted around the ridged, pointed tip seeming to spread his passage as wide as Glenn could accommodate. Hector held his breath as his shaft disappeared into the slender canine body, whose intimate passage caressed his sensitive tip and constricted around the venous shaft. Combating the blissful distraction and innate urge of self-satisfaction, Hector allowed his paw to slip around the coyote’s waist. His paw rediscovered the features of Glenn’s masculinity, fondling orbs within canine sack, handling the coyote’s duel-lobed knot, before wrapping his paw-pads around his tapered red shaft. 
Glenn shuddered, his knees trembled feeling the ursine arousal hilt him from behind and the weight of belly press upon his back. The attention to his arousal brought pleasure to the ache of intimacy, the full body experience of union well underway. Hector leaned back, lifting his weight off the coyote but keeping their hips linked. He peered downward past his paunch with a look of earnest command, initiating a sequence of slow movements exploiting the initial tightness of the coyote’s intimate passage. The ridged ursine maleness displaced the slick interior folds as canine tail-ring flexed in involuntary confusion, unaccustomed to the male girth permitted past its barrier.    
Slow yet forceful thrusts pushed the scruffy coyote forward, yet held restrained by strong paw clutching his slight waist. Sure enough the slight guide of a finger’s pressure communicated desired response. Glenn knew well enough the implication of every gesture and which gesture to anticipate based on unspoken rhetoric of action. The bear was a predictable lay, he thought, experiencing the accelerating rhythmic thrust and concurring genital ache. Nevertheless there was something sentimental about the overwhelming sensation, the errant vigor, and ursine musk that still pervaded his muzzle.
The bed rocked back and forth, creaking under the weight of the mating pair. Stoic grunts and a recurrent growl reverberated starkly in the small room of the trailer. Hector looked downward, watching the rhythmic undulation of hips and belly press against furred rump. Conscious of the intensity of physical pleasure, the sensations of slick shaft sliding through stretched and supple constriction of another body, a deeper satisfaction emerged. The bear felt the writhing male body beneath him held tight within his grasp, willingly subjected to the intimate thrusts, and took comfort in the proximity of his old friend. 
Clear coyote pre beaded at the tapered end of the coyote’s cock and fell upon the tangled blankets and sheets shook loose after every so many thrusts. The bear’s pre-matted paw held onto canine sack, clinging to the tender orbs within a solid grasp. Hector’s other paw held onto Glenn’s flank, resting over the tender scar tissue unobscured by fur. The placement pulled the coyote into slowly hastening thrusts eliciting minute grunts and sublimated winces. That paw issued several caresses throughout the union, passing along the coyote’s naked body over the scruffy aggregation of tawny and gray furs and over palpable ribs. The bear, leaning forward, slid that paw down around his chest. The muscular arm lifted the coyote, bringing his body flush against the bear.   
Glenn felt his body shift, brought square against the bear. The heat of coitus radiated through Hector’s dense brown fur. The coyote felt the warmth of his companion press against his back, belly displaced his tail. It felt strangely comfortable embraced by the adaptive folds of the bear’s large body, he though, as the bear rested his chin on his shoulder, breathing heavily through nose and lips. A strained wince stretched across his scared muzzle as the bear angled himself even deeper. Every thrust agitated the pleasant ache throbbing through his anatomy. The throb and thrust of bear cock aided by the proliferation of ursine pre nudged the coyote’s prostate to an almost overwhelming degree. It didn’t take Hector many strokes before he felt the slick canine maleness pulse within his grasp followed by the sensation of hot coyote semen pouring over his fingers.
A vulgar gasp of exhalation emanated from Glenn’s muzzle. Cum joined the wet patch of pre upon the sheets. A white cascade of male essence flowed forth from the pointed crimson tip and oozed down the shaft, over the brown furred fingers of the bear’s paw clutching the canine’s knot. An amused growl reverberated through the coyote as the bear sensed the occurrence. The mechanics of climax tensed the coyote’s body, his intimate passage squeezing the bear’s shaft in a throbbing sequence of rhythmic grasps. Tired tail-hole beared down on the wide tipped voluminous girth. 
The paw upon his chest seemed to constrict his breathing. Ursine fingers curled into the long fur, claws pressed against the flesh. Hasty thrusts utilized the involuntary spasms of coyote body, riding the waning climax before a final thrust halted the bear’s movements. Hector grunted into Glenn’s humbly downcast ears. Hot panting escaped his muzzle into the fur of the coyote’s check and neck. Quantities of ursine seed bred the coyote, gushing through the coyote’s slick interior in a seemingly vast sequence of powerful throbs. 
A renewed gasp left Glenn’s lips. A sensation of relief and finality immediately replaced the arousing ache. A fluid seeped through his intimate passage, pumped through his tired tail-hole. The viscous cum provided soothing relief as quantities coated the abused regions of his body. He sighed, trembling on his knees, held within the bear’s embrace. The soreness of his wounds seemed not to matter. Clarity returned with the waning of climax. Senses sharpened, once again aware of the tiny room, the drone of cooler and they dry desert air that parched their throats.     
The throb of climax subsided. Cum spilt in and on bodies and sheets. The delightful urge and ache stilled. Panting in and out of musk laden air accentuated the post orgasmic starkness. The twin bodies in upright embrace rose and sank in haste respiration. Hector fell so much as rolled to the side. Bedsprings squealed as he and the coyote in his arms collapsed, spooning on the freshly stained tangle of sheets. Semen and pre-soaked paw idly fondled the diminishing knot, milking the last droplets of cum from the softening member. 
They both gazed at nothing in particular past the nightstand, down the shadows of the narrow hallway, into the kitchen at the far end of the trailer. Light glowed through the thick kettle cloth curtains. Breathing slowly normalized. The swamp unit droned steadily, mist vented from its ducts. Strange placidity characterized the quiet. 
“We don’t have much time left,” said Glenn in a low, almost reverent tone.
The bear hummed affirmatively, his playful caress uninterrupted. “I know,” he said a half-moment later, past the coyote’s ear. His tone seemed remorseful. Neither of the pair tended toward any sort of movement.
“I think I decided to marry Miranda,” said Hector, his muzzle and cheek pressed against the coyote’s scalp.
“’Bout time,” said Glenn, apparently unfazed by the abruptly introduced topic. “How long’s it been, again?” 
“Thirteen years.”
“Damn.”
“She’s been dropping hints again. This usually means a fight’s brewing. I think she might actually leave this time.”
“We ain’t getting any younger, Heck.”
The bear hummed another yes.
“I suppose this is it then?”
“Like you said when you married Ilene, sometimes you got to pick a side of the fence and build a house there.”
The coyote nodded into she sheets. “Was looking forward to my turn though.”
“We’ll see. Donno of the miss will even forgive me.”
The coyote nodded again.
 The bear nodded, gently nuzzling the canine. A moment passed before he spoke. “I think I’ve drawn it out as far as I can Glenn. I think I realized that this morning.”
“What happened?”
“Long story. I think it just dawned on me how close I am to losing everything. If she goes, the boy goes, the Skylark goes, everything goes.”
“You could always crash here.”
“It’d never work between us,” said Hector, “we both know that.”
Glenn nodded. “When you gonna ask her?”
“Maybe tonight,”
“You ready for it?”
“Not really.”
“A woman wants proof of commitment.”
“What do you mean?”
“You got a ring?”
“Can’t afford one.”
“Hold on.”
The coyote slid out from under the bear’s arm. The softening ursine maleness imbedded in him began to slip out. The wider tip caught just beyond his tail-hole. It took a vigorous tug to free himself of it. The ridged tip popped out, drawing a flow of bear cum with it. The coyote gasped as he became freed of the intimacy within him and scooted off the bed. He didn’t seem to mind the trickle of semen running down his crevice. The cum made an imprint on the sheets as he sat on the edge of the bed and stood on wobbly feet. He stretched, his sinewy, disheveled body cracked audibly as bones righted themselves. 
The naked canine sauntered across the small room in a step or two. He pushed open the closet sliding door and searched through a pile of dirty clothes, brushing aside a military dress uniform. He produced a small metal lock box, returning to the bed with it. “Damn,” he mumbled, trying to arrange the numbers on the dial in the correct combination. A few moments later saw his success. He shuffled through the disorganized box, wallowing through photographs, certificates, medals and 19th century silver coins. At the bottom he found a small velvet box. He handed that box to the bear.
The bear wiped his sticky-paw irreverently on the bed sheets and took the box. He snapped it open. A simple white-gold ring with a sizeable ruby embedded in an intricate setting sat tucked in a black silken fold. He carefully took it out and held it up to the diffused light coming through the curtains. An inscription, “For my dearest love,” appeared imprinted on the inside of the ring in fine cursive. 
“Wow,” said Hector. “I can’t afford this, Glenn.”
“Take it,” he said.
“I can’t.”
“It belonged to my uncle’s wife Helen. It stayed behind when she left him. My uncle didn’t care much for it at that point and I could care even less. It’s not like I’ll ever need it, I got my pension and business is good. Besides, after two shitty marriages I’m pretty much off the market.  
“You sure?” asked Hector, putting the ring back in the box and making rather solemn eye contact.
“Positive. May it bring you better luck than my uncle and I.”
The coyote achingly lay back down upon the bed. He reclined on his back, stretching again, his matted sheath pointing toward the hole-tile ceiling. The bear reclined on his side, his maleness still hung out, limply dangling from his sheath. Glenn reached for a pack of cigarettes and offered one to the bear. Both lit up and fumed idly for a few more moments.
“It wasn’t just about sex, was it Glenn.”
“No,” he said abruptly, falling silent thereafter.
The bear averted his gaze, looked down at the black velvet box in his matted paw. A few moments passed in which neither spoke.
“You’re getting late,” said Glenn glancing back over at the flip clock. “He’ll be waiting for you.”
“Damn,” said Hector.
Both rolled off the bed and sorted out their clothes. The naked coyote wandered off into the bathroom. Hector heard the splash of urine in the toilet and subsequent running of the tap. The bear hiked up his pants and worked the buckle as Glenn returned to the doorway. Hector savored what would most likely be the last glance of sheath.
“You ever gonna tell her about us?” asked Glenn.
“No. That’s always been our secret.”
“What’ll happen to the Skylark?”
Hector sighed, bent over to pick up his undershirt, looked at Glenn and shrugged.
“Where will you go?”
“Probably back to Birmingham.”
The coyote didn’t bother getting dressed. He simply watched from the hallway as the bear slipped on his shirts. Hector once again looked at the small box and stuck it carefully into his pocket. He approached the coyote. They embraced. Wordlessly engaged in a moment’s long kiss and slipped from each other’s arms. Glenn followed the bear through the hall, the living room and out the front door. He stood, naked, in the doorway and watched the bear walk past the awning into the sunlight. Hector turned and waved. Glenn waved back. The bear quickly picked up the fixtures for which he came and eventually disappeared past the derelict cars and past the gate. It had grown warmer. The dry, fragrant vernal breeze blew past the coyote, tousling his shaggy fur. It felt cool upon his damp spots. His scars itched. He turned and went back inside. The flimsy door swung shut on its pistons.
The Skylark © Rufus Quintin