Stacy came to eventually, her face pale, her skin clammy. Gran hovered over her with wet cloths and smelling salts.
“Don’t they have snakes up in Michigan?” I whispered to my father.
“Reckon not.”
“It was just a little green one,” I said.
“Thank God she didn’t see a rat snake. She’d be dead,” my father said.
My mother boiled water and poured it into a cup with a tea bag. Stacy sat up and drank it, and for the first time in history hot tea was consumed on our farm. She wanted to be alone, so we returned to the front porch while she rested.
Before long, the men were into the Buick. They had the hood up and were poking their heads around the engine. When no one was paying attention to me, I moved away from the porch and headed for the rear of the house, looking for Tally. I hid by the silo, in a favorite spot where I couldn’t be seen. I heard an engine start, a smooth powerful sound, and knew it wasn’t our old truck. They were going for a ride, and I heard my father call my name. But when I didn’t respond, they left.
I gave up on Tally and walked back to the house. Stacy was sitting on a stool under a tree, looking forlornly across our fields, arms crossed as if she were very unhappy. The Buick was gone.
“You didn’t go for a ride?” she asked me.
“No ma’am.”
“Why not?”
“Just didn’t.”
“Have you ever ridden in a car?” Her tone was mocking, so I started to lie.
“No ma’am.”
“How old are you?”
“Seven.”
“You’re seven years old, and you’ve never ridden in a car?”
“No ma’am.”
“Have you ever seen a television?”
“No ma’am.”
“Have you ever used a telephone?”
“No ma’am.”
“Unbelievable.” She shook her head in disgust, and I wished I’d stayed by the silo. “Do you go to school?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Thank God for that. Can you read?”
“Yes ma’am. I can write, too.”
“Are you going to finish high school?”
“Sure am.”
“Did your father?”
“He did.”
“And your grandfather?”
“No ma’am.”
“I didn’t think so. Does anybody go to college around here?”
“Not yet.”
“What does that mean?”
“My mother says I’m goin’ to college.”
“I doubt it. How can you afford college?”
“My mother says I’m goin’.”
“You’ll grow up to be just another poor cotton farmer, like your father and grandfather.”
“You don’t know that,” I said. She shook her head in total frustration.
“I’ve had two years of college,” she said very proudly.
It didn’t make you any smarter, I wanted to say. There was a long pause. I wanted to leave but wasn’t sure how to properly remove myself from the conversation. She sat perched on the stool, gazing into the distance, gathering more venom.
“I just can’t believe how backward you people are,” she said.
I studied my feet. With the exception of Hank Spruill, I had never met a person whom I disliked as much as Stacy. What would Ricky do? He’d probably cuss her, and since I couldn’t get by with that, I just decided to walk away.
The Buick was returning, with my father at the wheel. He parked it, and all the adults got out. Jimmy Dale yelled for the Spruills to come over. He loaded up Bo, Dale, and Trot in the backseat, Hank in the front, and away they went, flying down our dirt road, headed for the river.
It was late in the afternoon before Jimmy Dale made any mention of leaving. We were ready for them to go, and I was particularly worried that they might hang around long enough for supper. I couldn’t imagine sitting around the dinner table trying to eat while Stacy commented on our food and habits. So far she had despised everything else about our lives, why should she relent over supper?
We moved slowly to the Buick, our languid goodbyes taking forever, as usual.
No one was ever in a hurry when it was time to go. The announcement was made that the hour was late, then repeated, and then someone made the first move to the car or truck amid the first wave of farewells. Hands were shaken, hugs given, promises exchanged. Progress was made until the group got to the vehicle, at which time the entire procession came to a halt as someone remembered yet another quick story. More hugs, more promises to come back soon. After considerable effort, the departing ones were safely tucked away inside the vehicle, then those sending them off would stick their heads in for another round of goodbyes. Maybe another quick story. A few protests would finally get the engine started, and the car or truck would slowly back up, everyone still waving.
When the house was out of sight, someone other than the driver would say, “What was the hurry?”
And someone standing in the front yard, still waving, would say, “Wonder why they had to rush off?”
When we made it to the car, Stacy whispered something to Jimmy Dale. He then turned to my mother and said softly, “She needs to go to the bathroom.”
My mother looked worried. We didn’t have bathrooms. You relieved yourself in the outhouse, a small wooden closet sitting on a deep hole, hidden out behind the toolshed, halfway between the back porch and the barn.
“Come with me,” my mother said to her, and they left. Jimmy Dale suddenly remembered another story, one about a local boy who went to Flint and got arrested for public drunkenness outside a bar. I eased away and walked through the house. Then I sneaked off the back porch and ran between two chicken coops to a point where I could see my mother leading Stacy to the outhouse. She stopped and looked at it and seemed very reluctant to enter. But she had no choice.
My mother left her and retreated to the front yard.
I struck quickly. As soon as my mother was out of range, I knocked on the door of the outhouse. I heard a faint shriek, then a desperate, “Who is it?”
“Miss Stacy, it’s me, Luke.”
“I’m in here!” she said, her usually clear words now hurried and muffled in the stifling humidity of the outhouse. It was dark in there, the only light coming from the tiny cracks between the planks.
“Don’t come out right now!” I said with as much panic as I could fake.
“What?”
“There’s a big black snake out here!”
“Oh my God!” she gasped. She would’ve fainted again, but she was already sitting down.
“Be quiet!” I said. “Otherwise, he’ll know you’re in there.”
“Holy Jesus!” she said, her voice breaking. “Do something!”
“I can’t. He’s big, and he bites.”
“What does he want?” she begged, as if she were on the verge of tears.
“I don’t know. He’s a shitsnake, he hangs around here all the time.”
“Get Jimmy Dale!”
“Okay, but don’t come out. He’s right by the door. I think he knows you’re in there.”
“Oh my God,” she said again, and started crying. I ducked back between the chicken coops, then looped around the garden on the east side of the house. I moved slowly and quietly along the hedges that were our property line until I came to a point in a thicket where I could hide and watch the front yard. Jimmy Dale was leaning on his car, telling a story, waiting for his young bride to finish her business.
Time dragged on. My parents and Pappy and Gran listened and chuckled as one story led to another. Occasionally one of them would glance toward the backyard.
My mother finally became concerned and left the group to check on Stacy. A minute later there were voices, and Jimmy Dale bolted toward the outhouse. I buried myself deeper in the thicket.