The Trouble With Snakes

Abstract

The Trouble With Snakes Monica Brashears (bio) Iain't got much to say but the truth. I swear by God, President Kennedy, by each of my ten toes and every Tennessean sunset—I ain't got it in me to hurt nobody. I only know that what I been doing would put my mama to tears. You acting out, my mama would say if she knew. She says it to me all the time. Baby Greene, you acting out, she said when I threw a branch at my cousin. It was never his fault. That was fourteen years ago. We was little [End Page 7] then. I was six. He was eleven. Josiah is his name, and Josiah is probably why I done all that I done. He's in the hospital. Rain on roads, old pickup flipped into a ravine, brain soup. Mama told me to visit him before it's too late. Yeah, I been acting out, alright. But I ain't done no wrong, not really. To make sense of it all, I got to go back a little. My misbehaving started the day after Josiah's accident. I went down to the colored grocer to buy some scented paraffin candles and some pralines. When Mama gets upset, she fills the house with light. When Mama gets upset, she gobbles up enough sugar to rot the teeth in her head and mine, too. I couldn't find the candles, and I was about ready to quit looking 'cause they smell like funeral flowers anyway. But I knew it'd make Mama feel better, so I figured I'd ask a worker. The first one I found smiled right away, and in that smile was clean moonlight. I put on my little girl voice when I said hello. I think it was his name tag that really got me—Otis. Don't it sound like he should be singing something to me? Then I found out his last name when we got to talking. Sweet. And yes, Lord, he was walking black sugarcane. That night, we parked his daddy's car on the side of a mountain. He cracked the windows to let in some air. It got hot and humid in there fast. A thunderstorm boiled green on the horizon, and then it was on us, the rain and his sweat beating my face. I knew somewhere a creek was swollen from all that wet. "You like that, huh?" he asked. "Yes," I whispered. He slid in and out, in and out, and I folded inside myself. But I could tell by that little smile on his face he didn't know that. He thought I really did like it, the way that yes came out my throat soft and easy as cottonwood seed. "Lift your leg a little," he said. I obliged. He nestled in me a little deeper. Sweat dropped on my lips, and I licked and [End Page 8] savored his salt. I wondered if I still had a cherry. It didn't seem to matter much to him. He groaned real loud and it didn't sound nothing like Redding. And then he was in my mouth, a fat stick of maple, but there wasn't no sugar in his sap. He dropped me off at the bottom of the mountain, at the edge of the gravel driveway. I tried to straighten my limp in the downpour. I saw Mama in the kitchen. I peeked through the honied glow of the window and saw curls of smoke, humid pots, grease-slick catfish popping in a skillet. I paused on the porch and crossed my legs while standing. The rain pounded through my cotton blouse and chilled my spine. I guess I do got something to say 'cause nobody likes to talk about this. When I crossed my legs, I met a real bad throb nobody warned me about in school or in scripture. And maybe I knew that throb before and didn't know it. But this time it didn't make me feel like a dirty washrag. This time it made me feel the way I feel when I catch the...