Shelter (1994)

by Philips, Jayne Anne

  "It's not Lenny's handwriting, just Lenny's paper," Alma said. "It must be from Cap."

  "Oh. Well, they probably share everything. More than us, even. I mean, they're older." Delia handed the letter back, looking noncommittal. "I guess it's important. They've never written us before. We could get away pretty easy. No one would miss us till after, in the cabin. Campfire goes on so long."

  "Two hours, anyway."

  It was true. The counselors couldn't notice exactly who was there; it was dark beyond the flames of the big fire, they were busy leading songs and chants, and all the girls were mixed together, crouching loud and faceless in their tangled circle.

  "We could just go to the latrines, separately, and not come back." Delia looked interested. "Maybe we're going to drink beer or liquor and go swimming. I heard Cap drinks. Isn't that why your mom made Lenny stop sleeping over at the Briarleys'?"

  "Where did you hear that?" Alma frowned, annoyed. In fact, it was the Briarleys who'd requested that Lenny not sleep over anymore, after they'd found an empty bottle in Cap's room, as though Lenny were the bad influence. "Gaither is awful," Alma said. "Everyone knows everything, except they get it all twisted."

  Delia dropped her eyes and looked away, studying the quad.

  Quickly, Alma took the other letter from her pocket and ripped them both once, twice, three times, crumpling the pieces. "I better tear this up. Maybe we'll sneak away, maybe not." She threw the paper into the big trash can by the door and stepped off the porch onto the broad steps. Delia was just ahead of her. They moved into the light, and the sun assaulted them full force.

  It was the hottest time of day. The dining hall seemed to have shut its doors forever, and straggles of girls drifted toward the wooded paths to regroup for hiking after lunch. Already, most of them were swallowed by the big-leaved trees; Alma and Delia were last. They dragged their feet, growing later and later as the heat ate minutes away, absorbing time. Noon, and the sun was too bright to see, all alone in the blue sky like a fire.

  "Walk faster, will you?" Alma stiffened one arm and put a hand flat against Delia's back. She could feel, in the exact shape of her palm, the weighty heat of a body. That's how it was: slow, the blouse damp to the touch, and a heartbeat measuring each step.

  "We're already late," Delia said. "They're lining up by now and filling canteens. Pearlie is saying how we're the very last ones again. We'll say I got sick and you stayed with me. It'll work. I'm going to be sick in a minute." Delia stopped then and half turned, shading her eyes. "Look, where the path goes into the trees. Who's there?"

  They saw two shapes, black against the sun where the ground rose. The little hill looked black as well, a curve before the trees began. There were two men, motionless, staring at the ground. One of them knelt.

  "It's Frank," Delia whispered, her lips so close Alma felt the shape of the words against her ear. "It has to be."

  Both girls drifted forward; the heat seemed to push them from behind. Alma felt her face nearly glow with some fire, but the tips of her fingers were cool, as though she'd touched some frozen, smoking cube. Dry ice, like in science class, ages ago. Yes, it was Frank; suddenly they were standing right beside him. He wore white cutoffs and a T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hands were empty and Alma was inches from him. Her eyes followed his long legs to his tennis shoes, unlaced so the worn tongues flopped out. He seemed to have been dusted with phosphorescent color. His legs were downy with golden hair; his arms, dark beige, glistened with the same yellow sheen. He looked hard as stone, he was so lean, yet she saw the vulnerable swell of his biceps and thought there was something tender about him. A fierce bravery overcame her and she reached out and touched him, the gesture completed before she could stop herself. Her fingers grazed his upper arm, moved, testing, and stopped.

  Beside her, Delia gasped. She moved as though to protect Alma, pull her back, but she was staring at the ground. The man kneeling there was a stranger, maybe one of the river workmen, shirtless, in sagging brown khaki pants. The ridged soles of his heavy boots were caked with dried bleached mud.

  "It's a blacksnake," Frank said. "Can't hurt you."

  Alma dropped her hand. He'd thought she was afraid! The distant, limitless trill of a locust rose and fell, a wilderness siren echoing a hidden shade in all this glaring daylight. Dimly, she wondered if she could faint now and not be here, her face was so hot and her hands so cold, and she peered into the depths of the ground at their feet. The ground moved and she saw the snake. The workman, his arms smeared with light swaths of dry yellow dirt, held the flat head of the snake in his fist. He held it carefully, like a weapon he respected, and something about him was like the snake. His black hair was wet and long, plastered to his head in ringlets, and he had a new beard. His face looked pared down, the broad cheekbones flaring under dark, almond-shaped eyes. His ears looked too small, they were so perfect, tight to his head, and he smelled. The odor of his sweat was pungent, faintly sweet, like the spoiled, smeared flowers of some unknown vegetable. Like snakes might smell, Alma thought. Beyond his big arm the black coil of the snake lengthened and swung, sidling along the ground as if the human grasp impeding it were of no consequence.

  "Who are you?" Alma asked. But she was staring at the snake, the movement itself, the black, shifting coil that looked so mindful and graceful.

  "He works down by the river," said Buddy.

  His funny, piping voice rasped, almost as though he wasn't used to talking. He was suddenly there among them, had caught up and pushed among their elbows and got next to them. The top of his fair, bristly head against Alma's arm tickled like a brush.

  The man nodded. "That's right, I lay pipe by the river." His voice was low and smooth, a singsong of even tone. His unshaven face was sun-dark, dark with close, tufted beard. In that shadow his mouth looked well defined, his lips pink, like they were lined with the kind of lipstick pencil Alma had seen Mina Campbell use. She'd : lean into the mirror by the front door and draw a line around her lips; when she filled in the space, Delia called it painting up. Now the stranger pursed his lips and sat up taller, on his knees, and gestured with the head of the snake, turning his fist as though to give the creature full view of Buddy's face. "I know you, boy," he said softly. "You know me?"

  Buddy seemed not to hear. "I might not have got a rabbit yet but now I can get me a snake," he said, as though to himself.

  The man stood, holding the snake tightly away. The length of the creature swung like animated rope, unfurled, and hung straight.

  Frank spoke. "That's the biggest blacksnake I ever saw. Where'd you find it?"

  Alma heard his voice with her head and with her chest, as though she vibrated when he talked. She eased closer in the tight knot of them all. Just by releasing her held breath she was bigger, took up more room. She brushed his body with hers, from her shoulder down her naked arm to her hip and thigh. She thought her clothes were just a shadow on her and she was breathing Frank's breath.

  "It found me," said the man with the snake. "Come from the river." He looked at Alma, as if it were she who'd asked.

  Delia was talking at Buddy, fast and nervous. Alma hadn't heard her until now. "Some snakes can swallow rabbits whole," she was saying, "and the rabbits are alive but they can't breathe in the snake—"

  "Not around here, snakes don't swallow any rabbits," Buddy said.

  "They do in Africa. I saw a movie at school. Didn't we, Alma?" She pulled at Alma's wrist, tugging hard. "Say so, will you?"

  The workman began backing away from them, beckoning them farther into the shade of the trees. "Come here with me now," he said, "look at this." He dragged the snake along, its black length sliding through grass.

  "No, we're supposed to be at the bridge for hiking." Delia looked up at Frank, emboldened. "Frank, you too."

  He shrugged. "Go on ahead. I'll be there."

  Now they were silent in their little knot, the circle broken. The workman moved back near them, around them, his gaze fixed on t
he snake. The long shape slid through grass with a sound like rope on silk, whispering. The whisper drew them on. Frank moved first, following the workman into the shade. "We'd better get someone," said Delia, but even as she spoke, she was drifting toward the towering oaks. Looking up, Alma thought the big leaves were the size of elephant's ears, flopping and heavy, concealing some intricacy. She felt Buddy pressed up against her, moving tight to her side.

  The stranger waited, looking at them. He gestured impatiently. "Hush and come over here," he said. "Watch here." And he held the snake high as they moved in close, secret again in shade, where the air had even a different smell than sunlight. He held the snake higher. They saw then the outline of the eggs within the black hide and the rhythmic, internal working of the snake. It hung limp and straight in the grip of capture; its tail end eased an oblong cylinder onto the grass.

  Alma crouched down to see. The egg was perfect. It looked smooth, opalescent. She half expected to hear a sound from inside, a hum or a blurred murmur.

  "Don't touch it," came Delia's voice.

  Alma let her hand draw near. The shadow of the workman fell over her. In that instant Alma felt him to be different from them, a different being, as though he were an animal or a ghost who only looked like a man. He bent, hovering close, reaching past her face with both arms. The snake he still held was like a long muscle, its flat head hidden in his fist, its tongue flicking out through his fingers. Alma was enveloped in the dense air his body made.

  "There," he grunted. Gently, he grasped the egg with two fingers and let it roll back into his hand. He straightened, held it out to Buddy flat-palmed, like sugar to a horse. "You touch it, boy," he said.

  Alma had moved a little away, was trying to move; she was never actually sure what happened. Buddy must have touched the egg but it seemed to break apart before he could. There was a barely audible sound and the egg seemed to fly apart with the force of a tiny explosion. Delia screamed and ran and Alma was running too, deeper into the trees, hearing Delia's short, shrill, directive screams. Alma followed, stumbling, wiping frantically at her face with her hands until she realized the wetness was tears.

  BUDDY CARMODY: DUST OF THE ROAD

  His feet on the dust of the road made smoky pops. The dust was soft, warm, blond; Buddy dragged his heel and made a long dent for the scary man to walk through. He wiggled his toes to make scratchy marks like chicken tracks. He'd wanted to circle up to Lenny's tent, hide the ring in with her special things, things no one else touched. But he couldn't go when someone followed him, watched him. The scary man could follow him easy and Buddy guessed it was a game. He'd come slowly after when Buddy left Camp Shelter to go on home. He kept walking but far behind; Buddy only saw him as the road turned, through the trees, still holding the snake like pendulous treasure. Buddy had seen him all along: he was one of the river workmen but he didn't curse with the others. He drove the pickup for Mrs. T.; he stood outside the kitchen and took the trash away. He was a scary man but he was a stranger, strange among them, not laughing with them, taking time to peer up at the swinging bridge when Buddy sat there, when Buddy carved his crosses one to a board and dangled his legs over the water. Now Buddy felt for the pouch of marbles and pulled the ring free. He held it up to the light and put his finger in and out the circled gold, touched the sharp little stone. He wondered about sitting by the mailbox at home, waiting for the scary man to walk up and giving the ring as trade, but no, he should keep it for Lenny. Maybe the stranger would give the snake, just leave it, what did a man want with a blacksnake? Those girls had run away so fast, maybe the stranger was taking the snake a far ways from the camp, and he'd leave it with Buddy for no trade, nothing. Buddy could keep it in the empty rain barrel, bring it spiders. Bring it the big grasshoppers he found in Mam's tomatoes, bring it the praying mantis bugs he trapped under the broad furry leaves of the squash plants. A mantis looked grown wrong, the way it picked along so slow and stiff, all drawn up to pray.

  Buddy knew he'd sinned, stealing. When that old redheaded directress sent him back into the kitchen, Mam was at the big sinks running the water, her broad back turned. He'd scuttled into the pantry and outside, quick, careful not to let the screen slam, that door a flat knife tall as a wall. Walking now, he touched the ring inside his pocket, pressed the stone hard to hurt himself. Stamped his feet to make smoke. Fly up, dust! A snake had hide that was dead and alive and a mouth straight across like a slash. Some snake might swallow a ring and keep it hid from Dad. Dad would take a ring and sell it, that's what, now he had that old car of someone's. Someone who, Mam would say, some rip is who. But Mam would take the ring too, take it back to that old redhead and tan Buddy's backside, make him tell at church what he'd done.

  He stopped, turned, looked back along the road. The stranger came on like he walked with steady music, holding the snake before him like a torch that lit a path. But the sun was bright and the day glared with heat. Like frying in a pan, Dad said, no river mudhole can cool a man. In Florida there's white sand beaches, ocean like diamonds, you could squint and see the water flash all the way to where the sky lit up. Then Mam banged plates on the table: so go there, don't need you here drunk all day, mean as a viper from hell and just as useless. He'd give her a shove: hell ain't no hotter than this trash house of yours, I get me some cash and I'm gone. No sense waiting, she'd say, go right on. She wasn't afraid to talk back in the daytime, but she was careful, like she was careful with fire when she burned trash in the steel drum by the stream. Piling up dirt, moving things that might take a spark. She talked at Dad and kept the table between them, didn't turn her back. They yelled, pushing their faces close each other's eyes, and Buddy tried to pay little mind until later, when he was by himself in the woods, on the road. Then their voices floated near him, flaring up out of nowhere. Dad's laugh was like a jay's scold, a robber bird's fat screech: I'll take that kid with me and teach him what a man likes to do. Now the words played over and over in the bright daylight. The words were in the bushes and up in the trees, holding still. A man liked to do. Buddy sat flat down in the road and waited for the man with the snake.

  Dad might still be drunk from this morning. Or he could rouse up from a drunk sleep if he heard Buddy and be out his head. You could never tell what might set him going. He'd rip off his own shirt and thump it with pillows. Or he'd get to throwing things at the light bulb that hung from the kitchen ceiling on a cord, pelt it with rocks or coins from his pocket. Mam didn't keep a bulb in it anymore but he still got riled and swung the cord all around, yelling words that weren't American. Mam said he learned those in the army in Korea, and he didn't talk foreign unless he was drunk. Then he got afraid. Afraid of what? He'd been in prison in Korea, Mam said, long time ago, but not for doing anything wrong. Just for being a soldier. So you got in jail for being a soldier. No, no, he was captured by his enemy, in a war back then. And the jail was like a cage. He don't like being closed in, so what does he do but throw over a job in the mines and go rob him a gas station, get himself in prison. You mean down in Carolina? Yes, but you know there's no need to talk about it to people. He gets scared locked up. Least he wasn't drinking then. That's what saved him, Mom said.

  But Dad wasn't saved. Not like they said about saved at church.

  A snake would keep him off Buddy. For sure he'd be afraid of a snake. Dad would take a rabbit and skin it for fun, but he wouldn't touch a snake. And he couldn't shoot it because Mam had taken all the ammunition and hid the boxes in the camp kitchen. She'd washed Buddy's hair under the spigot, saying there's no shells around here now, not even pellets for your BB gun, till I see about Dad, what he's going to do. Buddy heard her talking, her big hands circling his scalp. Her soapy knuckles on Buddy's head rubbed and kneaded behind her voice, getting rid of all the dirt. Dad's been down some hard roads, she said. Got himself into the service out of Proudytown, barely sixteen. Proudytown, what a name for a work farm. Nothin proud about it. Just kids with no folks who've got into trouble. What kind of trou
ble? Never mind. I stand here between you and trouble, you know that, Buddy. And her voice would get full. He knew without looking that she was biting her lip in one straight line.

  Dad wouldn't get over. Dad was moving one way. And he had hold of Buddy, like Buddy's wrist he held on to, Buddy's arm, carried the print of Dad's strong hand. Dad was moving and drifting and maybe he scared himself. The snake would remind him, it was so long and black and quiet when it moved. Dad might forget to put Buddy in the car then. He'd go away alone, drive off, forget about Mam and Buddy. Buddy sat still on the road and put both hands in the yellow dust. Go down dust, flat like a powder river. A snake could move without moving, crawl out of its own skin, climb and swim. But Dad would get drunk in that car, forget to steer, forget Buddy somewhere in the dark. Here it was bright in the sun. Buddy slammed his hands hard to see some smoke fly up, rise like a fat ghost and spend itself. He would be a ghost if Dad took him away; he wouldn't know how to get home, how to get to school in Gaither and find his bus back to the road and the woods. He wouldn't know to say the right words if someone asked him. If he was far away and Dad had got him confused. He practiced now and said out loud: Gaither, Camp Shelter Road, Mam, Buddy Carmody, and his bus was Number Two. But if he was scared to talk, things got loud in his ears. Like the loud sounds in the trees. They were sounds Mam made at night when Dad was fighting on top of her, grunting and swearing, trying to climb in. Buddy shut his eyes tight and panted like he did then in the dark, shutting out their sounds; he panted and felt for the ring in his pocket, the ring and the bag of marbles and his pointy rock. The marbles he emptied out across the road. They turned their bright ripples over and over and the colors shooting through them rolled into the ditch; Buddy kicked the bag away from himself. Today he'd taken the ring instead of carving a cross on the bridge—it was no use now, because the stranger with the snake was not at the river anymore with the other workmen. He was here, just out of sight. But who was a devil? Who was a ghost? The stranger walked and nothing scared him. The crosses might have kept him away but the ring had drawn him close. He knew Buddy had the ring, that's what. He might be the Lord's own angel, come for vengeance, like Mam said angels did. But it wasn't the ring he wanted, because he could come and take it. He wanted to follow Buddy.