When the Cottonmouths Come to Feed Michelle Ross (bio) The morning a young man opened fire on students and faculty at the university my older daughter, Katya, attended, I watched two cottonmouths glide across the koi pond as gently as paper boats. The evening before I’d sat by the pond with my five-year-old daughter, Raya: no snakes. I’d gazed down at the pond from my bedroom window when I awoke: no snakes. That put their arrival at somewhere between approximately six and seven that morning. Katya was killed between 6:33 and 6:41. For eight minutes the man had fired his gun before police “took him out” as a radio reporter put it, as though talking about a sports match. Eight minutes is nothing if you are reading or decorating a cake, but if you’re killing people, eight minutes is a long time. That morning by the koi pond, I didn’t know yet about Katya. All I knew was that two cottonmouths were circling above the eleven koi—Petra’s koi. My wife had dug the pond herself, six years ago. Four was the number of years I’d been without her. The koi swam back and forth in figure eights as though the cottonmouths were mere sticks adrift above them. Or maybe they simply knew there was nowhere to escape to, nowhere to hide. In any case, their ease put me at ease. Or let’s just say I was at ease. I can’t really say why. Less than an hour after three bullets emptied Katya’s blood through her back and chest, the sun rose between the spread branches of the pecan tree at the far edge of my yard. The horsetail reeds rattled in the breeze. The black snakes cornered two koi against the shallowest bank of the pond and unhinged their jaws to expose their namesake white throats. They caught the koi by their heads. The fish wriggled like ballerinas on their toes. At nearly two feet long and twenty pounds apiece, the koi seemed too big for the cottonmouths to swallow. Yet when I returned after dropping Raya off at school and before I headed to the bakery, there were only nine koi in the pond. The cottonmouths had vanished. [End Page 65] It wasn’t until the fourth photograph that I saw Katya. I recognized the light blue dress and neon orange sneakers, the ugliest sneakers in the world, I’d once said to her. The color of a life vest, I thought, as if my brain was trying to plant jokes where jokes wouldn’t grow. Still, the sneakers’ garishness was lucky insofar as I identified Katya without having to endure a closer look. I’d bought that dress for her when she visited at Christmas. By bought I mean I gave my credit card information to an online retailer after Katya said it was what she wanted in lieu of the bicycle I’d gifted her. “I can’t very well haul a bicycle overseas.” As far as I knew, she hadn’t pinned down a particular destination but she was determined to go somewhere far away after graduation this spring. Now I had no reason to concern myself with such details. What I did have to concern myself with was the cat she’d left behind in the apartment she’d shared with two other girls. The father of one of the girls called to settle the matter of the cat, Prince Boo. “Katya never told me about a cat,” I said. We agreed that the girls wouldn’t be there when I picked up Katya’s belongings, that they’d leave the key under the mat. They couldn’t handle it, the father said. I laughed, then stopped. When I entered the apartment, I found six cardboard boxes stacked on the living room floor. One had a hole cut into the top, from which poked the head of a duck, carved from wood. The handle of an umbrella. Prince Boo sat on the windowsill. He turned toward me, then back to the window. I peeked into the bedrooms. The doors weren’t...