Snails

Abstract

FICTION Snails Jay Solka THE OLD MAN, JAMES PASCAL M. FITCH, WAS CARVING A SNAIL. As he worked, his gnarled hands, in spite of being a little shaky, moved with dexterity. He cut a microscopic star in the little ball on the end of the snail's left feeler. This feeler hung down, to the left, while the other one rose slightly to the right and up, and the snail's head was turned curiously, just like his own. Fitch scratched the spiral shell with the tip of his knife, making a series of concentric grooves. Then he looked at his work from a distance, took his knife again, and just below the feelers, cut out a smile. Later in the morning, Fitch drove his taxicab to the Lime Hill train station. Some train enthusiasts had repaired the old scenic railroad not too long ago, after forty years of abandonment, and many tourists came this way. From there, they would take a taxi to Rocky Knob, with its one street, one hotel, and one French restaurant, and then hike to the nearby Organ Falls. The road from Rocky Knob to Lime Hill was a fifteen-mile stretch through the woods. The humdrum of the passing trees was broken only twice, by a huge gully through the middle of which ran a very unattractive, fairly deep and quiet creek. Right where the woods ended, and before Lime Hill began, there used to be a gas station, but now it was just a barren square of concrete. Drivers from the Lucky Star Taxi and Limousine Service (there were five of them) often pulled into the spot to have a smoke and chat. When Fitch got there, Barnett was standing by his car. Fitch hit the brakes, and his orange painted '86 Crown Vic jerkily came to the curb. Barnett turned. He was only fifty-six now, and he was strong—his cropped head gave him the look of a retired platoon sergeant. Leaning against the hot fender of his car, dressed in a worn-out poncho, he grinned sourly. Barnett had chronic heartburn, but it was much more than that, really—anchored deeply into the flesh of some ancient sin. It was a part of a family curse, which made the Barnett men fine carpenters but sloppy lovers, and drove away their wives, who couldn't stand being neglected for a dead tree. 71 Fitch opened the door, dropped his bony leg on the pavement, and took his rickety glasses off, putting them in the glove compartment. He touched his pockets, turned off the engine, and stepped over to Barnett. "I ain't never seen such a curious thing ever since I was born," said Fitch, as he squinted around to make sure nobody was listening. He had a scratchy, strong voice. Barnett shrank back, and his grin turned even more sour. He looked at Fitch's checkered cap. It must have lived on the old man's head for the last forty years, at least since Pamela Jean had passes away. "I stumbled on it in the meadow," said Fitch. He dripped his gnarled fingers into his overalls. "Extraordinary wood!" Barnett bent over at the waist, like a mannequin with hinges, his spine straight like a broomstick, and looked at the wooden snail in Fitch's hand. "I'll say, just a regular piece of figured sugar maple. I've seen enough of that curly timber to build a good-sized city." "A regular piece of figured sugar maple?" huffed Fitch. "Pshait! This here piece of regular figured maple has more curls than that degenerated brain of yours. I ain't never seen such a quality wood, and I've been in the curly timber business since before you was born. If you had any knowledge of the curly timber business at all, you'd know that this is the most extraordinary burl in the world." Barnett stopped grinning, but you would've had to know him for awhile to realize that, because his lips were still in that crooked position. "It don't mean nothing," he said. "Oh, yeah! It surely does. Timber like this don't grow just anywhere...