Then he did it. Leaned in, unlatched the simple lock that held the lid down on the cage.
“I’m makin’ it easy for you.”
And for the second time, he fired his weapon.
One year at camp I’d slept in the grass and during the night a bat kept flying inches over my face. I always remembered the heat of its passage. The bullet was like that now. The heat of its passage.
I did a kind of dance on my knees, jerking sideways, frontways, slamming into the snake cage. And then doing, in simple animal reaction, the unthinkable.
I reached my arm out and grabbed the far side of the cage to keep it from falling off the low table it was resting on. And then I jerked back, astonished at my stupidity as the snakes flew out at me, at least two snakes arcing their heads into the top of the cage, trying to get at me.
“Open it!” Oates shouted.
And then swung the rifle barrel into the side of my head again. My entire consciousness was sliding into pain. It was getting difficult for me to think.
I nudged up against the cage.
He swung the rifle around yet another time.
This time I consciously stopped myself from bumping against the cage.
And this time I realized how I could get out of this situation, rifle or no rifle.
It was not without risk. There would be a few seconds there when the snakes would be close to me, able to bite me and hold on if they wanted to.
But I didn’t have much choice. The snakes or the religious crackpot-y decide.
“Open it,” he said. His voice was raw now.
He’d glimpsed the future. One of the snakes striking me, filling me with poison. He spoke in the raspy tone of true passion.
So I opened it.
But I kept hold of the handle to the lid. And instead of shoving my hand inside, I used the handle to swing the entire cage around and fling it at him.
He screamed like a young boy.
He fired two shots.
And he dropped his gun when one of the flying rattlers slapped him across the face.
The gun discharged when it hit the floor.
I was already halfway down the aisle, my sore ankle be damned, heading for my ragtop.
Thirteen
I went home and took a very cold shower. I stood in there fifteen minutes trying to get snake off me. Part of it was psychological, of course. You couldn’t scrub away a sense of snake. It stayed with you for a long, long time.
I’d just finished getting into some clean summer-weight clothes-white short-sleeved shirt, blue-on-blue striped necktie, blue slacks, black socks, black loafers-when the phone rang.
“You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
“He called and said that he still loved you.”
“Yeah, sort of, anyway.”
“So you’re going to see him.”
“Tonight. That’s why I called. I told him I was with you last night and I think he got jealous. He started insisting that we get together tonight.”
“You know something?”
“What?”
“I’d do the same thing you would. I’d go.”
“Really?”
“Are you kidding? Look at all the times I went running back to Pamela.”
“Yeah, I guess you were kind of a glutton for punishment.”
“Well, as one glutton to another, why not give it a try?” I said.
“You think it might actually lead somewhere?”
“Probably not,” I said. “But it’s nice to have a little hope again, isn’t it?”
“Hearing “maybe” is always better than hearing “no.””
“That’s right,” I said.
“Even if “maybe” is a lie?”
I sighed. “Yeah, kiddo, even if “maybe” is a lie.”
“You’re really a wise man, McCain. You should run for pope or something.”
“I was thinking of that. I’d like to wear that hat he does. You know that really tall one? With the lifts I have in my shoes, that hat would make me seven feet.”
She laughed. “Thanks for being such a good friend.”
“My pleasure.”
Pause. “I really did want to sleep with you last night.”
“Same here.”
“Chad’s the only guy I’ve ever slept with, though. So it would’ve been a really big step.”
“I understand. I’m running for pope, remember?”
Mrs. Courtney was just leaving the two-story, redbrick Colonial-style rectory when I pulled up. She wore a black suit on this boiling day. She had the look and air of a millionaire’s wife, a somewhat lacquered and severe middle-aged blonde who did not belong out here in the sticks. Attractive but not appealing.
As if money-or in her case, the prestige of Harvard Divinity-had bled all the juices out of her. I reached her just before she got into her dark-blue Chrysler.
“Mrs. Courtney, my name is-”
“I know who you are, Mr. McCain. I hope you’ll excuse me but I’m in a hurry.
I need to be at the mortuary in five minutes.” Her voice was cool if not quite cold.
No reading on her eyes. Shades.
“I’d really appreciate ten minutes of your time.”
“For what, Mr. McCain?” The words weren’t slurred. But they were slightly indistinct. Or was I imagining it? It had now been a few hours since the snake cage but every few moments snake images filled my mind, daymares, skewing my hold on present reality.
“I need to talk to you about your husband.”
“I repeat, Mr. McCain, for what?”
Only then did I realize that she swayed slightly as she stood there, and only then did I catch the first wisps of gin aroma. Nothing else smells like gin. Praise the Lord.
“I’m trying to find out who killed him.”
“So is Mr. Sykes. And he told me about half an hour ago that he’s got some very promising leads.”
I had to be careful here. I owed her the deference one normally gives a widow. But she was way too bright to believe that Cliffie could find a murderer. Or his ass with both hands and a compass.
“Every once in a while, he arrests the wrong person.”
“He assures me that the person he has in mind is indeed the guilty party.”
“Did he say who that person is?”
She put a slender hand on the door handle.
Her knees gave a little, the way a drunk’s do when he’s been standing erect too long in one place. “Good day to you, Mr. McCain.”
“Do you really want your husband’s killer found, Mrs. Courtney?”
“What a ridiculous thing to say.”
“If you’re serious about finding his killer, you’re not going to leave it up to Cliffie.”
“Should I share your sentiments with him?”
“He knows my sentiments.”
“You’re being stupid, Mr. McCain. Why wouldn’t I want my husband’s killer found? I loved my husband.”
“Loved him enough to protect him even after he’s dead? Maybe there’s something you’re hiding, Mrs.
Courtney.”
She said, “There’s a wake tonight in his honor.
I need to get ready for that. And I’ve spent enough time with you.”
I put a hand on her arm. Carefully. “This isn’t any of my business, Mrs. Courtney, but are you sure you’re all right to drive?”
“You’re right, Mr. McCain, it isn’t any of your business.”
She got in her car and let the heavy door slam. She started the engine, then started the radio -classical music-and then started the air-conditioner. She swept away in a great Harvard Divinity moment.
My cousin Slim works at the state-run liquor store. There’s a push on-there’s been a push on for years-ffget liquor by the drink in Iowa and to make bottled liquor available in a variety of retail stores… but you know how it is with conservative legislators. They’re always accusing liberals of wanting to legislate morality-especially with civil rights-but they don’t have any problem telling you when and where you can buy liquor, whom you can have sex with