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Introduction
About the Author
Dedication
Dancing for My
Mother
World
Voices Home
The
Literary Explorer
Writers
on the Job
Books
Forgotten
Thomas E.
Kennedy
Walter
Cummins
Web Del Sol
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Winter
day: it is
snowing and you are hoping it will be enough snow to shut down school.
You
leave your house willing the snow to fall faster. You decide to go to
the ditch
and see if there is scary ice to walk on. The ditch is a large, watery
depression ringed in trees and yellow rushes. Drainage pours into the
ditch from
the streets and from a big drain pipe, big enough to walk through all
the way
to East Colfax Avenue, where you can watch the traffic going by from a
rat’s
eye view.
When
you get to the ditch it is as
frozen as you had hoped it would be. You slide onto it, onto the ice,
where,
face down, you lick it, feel it tugging your tongue. Rub the ice smooth
with
the sleeve of your jacket to see what is below: dead vegetation and
chunks of
cement, lots more things, some of which you put there yourself, a tire,
a bicycle
chain, an assortment of spokes forming a spiny star, the head of a
smirky doll,
the dome of a buried golf ball like a little white moon down there. And
you see
something green. It’s like a green snake, a fat one. A python. You jump
away,
scurrying on hands and knees to the edge of the ditch. Where you stop
and look
back. The ice isn't moving, no python breaking through to chase you.
You know
that pythons eat people all the time in the Congo. Pappas has said so.
One of
them ate a pregnant woman and when they cut it open the woman was
crushed dead;
but when they cut her open, the baby was still alive. It’s one of the
neatest
stories you’ve ever heard. You told it to some girls at school and made
them
scream. You told them the woman was bleached white by the snake sucking
out all
her blood. Eek!
When
the python doesn't appear, you
search the snow where there are concrete chunks someone dumped. You
toss a big
piece at the spot where the python lives. The cement breaks a hole in
the ice
and the green thing bobs up, floats on the water. It isn't a python at
all. It
is something rubbery. Round like a lifesaver. With a stick you pull it
across
the ice. It is some kind of wreath. You dry it with the sleeves of your
jacket.
In your pocket is a black crayon. With it you draw a snakehead, slit of
an eye,
dots for nostrils, mouth open, a tail going into the mouth, huge fangs
on each
side of the tail. You carry it looped over your shoulder and head to
school.
The kids are outside waiting for the bell.
Sandra
Graham is there. Her father
owns Graham’s Grocery. You love her. You want to show your snake to
her. The
first time she smiled at you your heart was hers. One time while she
was
watching, you piled up a handful of dirt and ate it. Another time you
dove
headfirst down the slide and skinned your palms so bad they bled. These
are
small sacrifices you are willing to make to show Sandra your love. You
have a
plan that one day, when some stupid boy flicks her suspenders, you will
fly to
her rescue and sock that boy in the jaw. Today Sandra is in her red
coat and
red stocking cap. She is wearing white boots that blend with the snow.
Your big
sister is standing next to her. Where you been? Carol Marie says.
What's that
thing on your shoulder? You tell her it’s a roundsnake. I caught it
frozed at
the ditch and brought it back to life. He's
my friend. Carol Marie says, It's no snake, stupid.
It's something
made of rubber. You hold it out like a loop of rope. And say, If I tell
it to,
it'll let go of its tail and bite your ass and you’ll die. She shakes
her head
like an irritated mother. Then she inspects the roundsnake, her eyes
inches
from it. And she says, You know what this is? This is what they use for
sticking flowers and ferns in to make funeral wreaths. Grow up, Duffy.
You tell
her to feel it. She feels it and says it feels nasty.
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