Pardon my French, but my pa was a real shit. Crazy as a sprayed roach.
And I don’t just say that because I was his son. Ask anybody who got within ten feet of him. Looking back now, I’m not sure the man ever truly loved a soul. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he didn’t know how.
My ma might’ve been the only one who ever showed him honest affection. As for my love? He rubbed my nose in it, like I was a mutt who’d pissed the parlor rug.
So I learned early: don’t waste your love on folks who ain’t got their own to spend. They’ll leave you flat-ass broke in matters of the heart. That’s the one lesson he ever gave me worth a damn.
Well—that and putting George Hardin in my path. The best thing he ever did. Even if it wasn’t on purpose.
Still doesn’t mean he wasn’t a shit.
So what did I do? I doubled up on loving my mama.
Mama’s boy, they said. And I guess they weren’t wrong. I was scrawny. Soft in ways that made Pa twitch. Queer in my manner, though I didn’t have the words for it yet.
One thing Pa couldn’t stomach was softness. Said it made a man dangerous in all the wrong ways. That’s why he sent me out that spring Sunday to catch snakes. Not out of love. Out of shame. Thought it might roughen me up.
And in a way, I guess it did. Just not the way he figured.
I’d just turned thirteen. It was one of those muddy Delta Sundays after church—when the world felt thick and full of secrets. I was in the woods doing what I was told: rolling mossy logs with my crook stick, scanning for the flick of a tail or tongue. So far all I’d stirred up was a scurry of shiny black beetles scrambling for cover.
Off to the side, Violet was bent low, pretending to hunt mushrooms. Claimed she needed them for a potion she was dreaming up. But I knew better. She hated snakes about as much as I did. I don’t know why she asked to come along.
I liked Violet more than I let on—even to myself. Maybe I was ashamed because she was a girl. Maybe because she was colored. I didn’t know. I just knew she made the world feel less lonely.
“We ought to be down by the river,” she said. “Or Half Moon Lake. You catch more snakes there. Least you can see ’em coming at you.”
She wasn’t wrong. But I couldn’t tell her why I picked this stretch of timber.
It was cool for late May. The clouds were hanging low, threatening more than drizzle. But I didn’t mind the wet. I kept at it—overturning rocks, jabbing into leaf piles and rotted stumps—while Violet stayed mostly dry under a red oak.
Truth was, catching snakes wasn’t the point that day. These woods backed right up to George Hardin’s store.
Every Sunday evening, once the men from his honkytonks and gambling shacks dropped off their week’s take, Mr. George would lock himself in the back room to tally receipts. That’s when I could find him alone. I’d been staying away, like I was told. But now—he’d asked for me.
I pulled the note from my pocket again. Ledger paper. Bold handwriting.
Need to see you. Don’t tell anyone. Important. Sunday dark.
Despite Pa. Despite God, to whom I’d made certain strike-me-dead vows—I was going. Of course I was. But what in the world could the biggest man in Hopalachie County want with a skinny, soft boy like me?
Violet called out, “Getting dark. Gran Gran’s gonna worry.”
“You go ahead,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Got business needs tending.”
She studied me. That kind of look we shared—full of what we didn’t say.
“I need to do this by myself,” I told her. “You go on home.”
Once she was gone, I opened the note again. Searching it for clues. That’s when I heard it—something crashing through the brush. Fast. Like it was being chased.
I ducked behind a hickory and peered through the leaves. Flashes of denim and flannel. A sack slung over one shoulder, sagging heavy.
Then I stepped wrong. A twig snapped underfoot.
The man froze. Raised a gun. I pressed back against the tree, breath locked in my chest.
A long moment. Then he took off again, vanishing into the trees like a spooked deer.
I calmed myself. He was probably hungry. Stealing a pig or chicken to feed his family. My own father had done worse. I wasn’t about to tell.
By now the mist had thickened. Beading on the leaves. Pattering soft on the ground. The light was going fast. I knew I’d sooner step on a snake than see one. But it didn’t matter. It was almost time.
I started toward the store.
Near the cedar-post fence by the road, I stumbled. Looked back. A ribbon of color, coiled beside the log.
I froze. Not from fear—from awe.
It wasn’t the dull brown of a moccasin or the rust-red of a copperhead. This little thing shimmered in yellow, black, and red bands. Even in low light, it glowed like something conjured.
A coral, I figured. Deadly and rare. Even as a baby it could kill a man. But I didn’t move.
Its eyes met mine. Tongue flicking, like it was calling me closer. I felt calm settle over me—strange, steady, unnatural.
I reached. Slowly. No panic. Just wonder.
Then I remembered my stick. Slipped it under the body, lifted it into my sack.
Tied it off tight.
“Tripper,” I whispered. It felt like the right name.
By the time I reached the edge of the field, the world shimmered. The snake had worked a spell. I knew it, even then. I would never be scared of snakes again.
I saw the black Buick parked out front. Mr. George’s.
The store steps were slick with rain. The front door stood wide.
I paused. Pulled open the screen. Stepped inside. The place was too quiet. Only one light, burning in the back. That door was open. It never was.
“Mr. George?” I called.
No answer. Just the sound of the sack rustling at my side. And the hard, steady drum of rain on the tin roof above.
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