The Snake

There is a snake—long, thin, shiny—that lurks in the walls of his basement. He tells me this recently, standing up to demonstrate his composure at finding it there. He moves to the corner of the living room, his lanky arms and fingers easily touching the ceiling. He is poised, still; curious at his discovery. And I believe him.

But who would not recoil from an unexpected snake? Who would not drop the putty knife, still wet with mortar, when the snake revealed itself, metallic and powerful, its hungry tongue licking at the shadows down there? That snake with its potency, its ability to coil around something many times its own size and squeeze it into lifelessness… Instead, he shows me how he stood there, just inches away from that probing tongue, and studied the iridescent etchings, the quiet black eyes—he and the snake alone in the hushed, dark basement of his farmhouse. Of course it was only moments before the snake disappeared behind the concrete walls, into some unknown nest, and he stood alone, as cool and measured as that hungry reptile.

And I wonder what that says about him? About us? I imagine my own wild response, coming face to face with that snake: the spontaneous screech, tools jettisoned, feet that carry me, like a skiff riding the waves, straight upstairs. To light, to safety, to warmth. My uneven breathing, terror howling from my eyes, sweat in the palms of my outstretched hands. And him, anchored quietly in that basement, half smiling, hammer gripped securely in his working hands, hoping to catch another quick glimpse. Intrigued by the science of it…

Today I push an obstinate cart around the smooth, well lit aisles at Target. I toss things in the cart to ward off my fears: face cream, body shaper panty hose, Children’s Tylenol. I am looking at the lacy bras, in black, cut low the way I like them, when I hear her yelling. Loud enough to pull me away from the delicate fabric that will cleave to my heavy breasts and give them shape, form—and as I step out from behind the rack, she is there, bent over a little girl. And then she slaps her. Hard. Then yanks a fragile arm so that the pigtails shake. And the little girl cries. You come when I fucking call you, the woman barks, standing up in her adultness, her motherhood, her conviction. Her hand on a stroller where a smaller baby sleeps. You fucking hear me? she says, answering her own rhetorical question with another slap. And I am terrified of this woman’s power, and her powerlessness, her poverty. I glance around to see who else is there, but I am alone with this young mother in the brightly lit aisle, living my own troubled life, making my own bad choices. What are you fucking looking at? the woman hisses at me. I think I am looking at fear, I want to tell her. But please is all I manage to say before a dog-eared man appears from nowhere, lifting the pigtailed girl to his chest. Don’t fucking comfort her, the woman tells him, as she muscles the stroller down the aisle, mad at me, at the little girl, at the world. But I know it’s really fear—of a different kind than mine; but fear is fear, I’ve come to realize. And we are never at our best when we’re afraid…

And I watch him, even in his strength and height--even as he stares down reptiles--erecting walls, puttying over cracks, building doors out of wood and wrought iron hinges with his own ample hands. Closing things off. Boxing things in. Sealing things tight. And he goes about his construction methodically, patiently—confident in his workmanship and exactness. As fearful as the rest of us…
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