Snakes and Stones

1

STEALING MONEY AND TELLING LIES

There hasn’t been a traveling salesman in this neck of the woods in more than two years; that’s what some in the crowd are saying. You’d think the folks in this Podunk town would be happy we’ve come, but they’re not. Matter of fact, by the sound of the ruckus, they’re fixing to run us out of the county. Maybe even clean off the map.

Charlatans! Snake oil peddlers! Hoodlums! Swindlers!

They’re mad, I tell you, and getting madder by the minute.

They’re brash and loud with their shouts, thrashing our wagon with sticks and branches, slinging stones that thump and thud and make hollow sounds against the old wooden red and white circus wagon.

Chestnut Hill, keep them babies inside! Daddy hollers. Around us, we hear crashing as the elixir bottles stacked on the side of the wagon shatter.

I’m crouched in the corner of the wagon, huddled on top of the triplets the same way a mother hen would gather her brood up and under her wings for protection—way too much responsibility for an ordinary twelve-year-old in a dirty, torn dress, frumpled hair, and shoes with holes in them the size of Missouri. Especially a girl that’s been snatched from her mama against her will.

The wagon shimmies like warm jelly when Daddy slams the wooden flap down on the side, and it makes me feared that the wooden pegs holding it together will pop clean out of their grooves at any second. With one swift thud, he shoves the bolt across the flap, and takes off running, his black patent leather shoes making a slapping sound against the weathered brick pavers of the street. If there ever was a doubt, it’s gone now. We’re up to our earlobes in trouble.

My leg muscles ache from wanting to run. With every stone and bottle and stick that’s hurled and bounced off the side of the wagon, I jump and dodge worse than a late-evening gnat being chased by an angry hand, same as I would if I was on the outside and every last one of them was hurled straight toward me.

I hear those familiar shoe slaps again and know Daddy’s close, and as much as it pains me to admit it, just the thought brings me comfort.

Breathing deep comes easier too as I hear Daddy’s voice offering up some soothing words to our horse, Old Stump. I reckon surely the wagon will rock from side to side as he climbs aboard and plops down on the wooden seat behind her, but it don’t. Daddy is still on the ground with the mob, and that shoves fear even deeper into my belly.

Fuzzy-headed Hazel—stubborn as a donkey knee-deep in a manure patch and still way too much a baby at seven—is sobbing again, only this time them sobs aren’t silent. This time they’re weeping and wailing sobs. Sobs to wake up all the corpses in the graveyard sobs. Moaning, howling, blubbering bawls of sobs.

Makes me want to slap the sob right out of her.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

I’m not a slapper.

Chestnut, you’re smothering me! Mac says with a lisp that I reckon he’ll never outgrow.

Hush up, you. You’ll think smothering if that angry mob turns us over and spills us out, I say, trying as best I can to hold to the wooden walls and protect the triplets. They’ll beat the living tarnation out of the lot of us if they get their hands on us.

I don’t care. I can’t breathe!

I pull back just enough to let in a bit of air but still hold them close.

We didn’t do nothing wrong! Hazel throws her head back and wails.

Humph! We did too, I say, soft enough so’s only a bedbug could hear. We stole their money and told them lies.

Without some sort of help, Daddy alone with that mob don’t stand a chance. Filbert must have thought it too because just at that second he breaks my grip, jumps to his feet, and eyes the door.

Where are you going? I holler.

Filbert, with his autumn leaf–brown hair and eyes the color of a stormy sky, moves closer to the door. Tears as big as baseballs roll the length of his dimpled cheeks.

Daddy needs help. Can’t you hear them people? They’ll kill him!

Get back here! I snatch for him even though he’s well beyond my grasp. I said get back here now! Filbert!

Let me be, Chestnut, he yells, his eyes wide and darting back and forth.

With arms flailing and teeth clenched, he’s more a caged animal than a worried boy in back of a wagon. Mama always said he was blessed with more guts than brains, and I reckon he’s proving that more with each passing day.

You didn’t see their faces like I did, he says. If we don’t help, Daddy’s sure to take a walloping from that mob.

He swipes at a cheek with his sleeve but does nothing about the leaking from his nose threatening to sneak past his lips and into his mouth. Slinging wide the double doors, he bolts like lightning down the steps, his mission-bag shirt untucked and wrinkled like he’s slept in it a month, and his pants practically threadbare at the knees.

Instantly I know my hide’s going to catch the devil from Daddy, but there’s nothing I can do now ’cept stand here crouching, trying to protect the other two.

Straining to hear, I can pick out Filbert’s war whoops from among the crowd. If I’d ever wished to be in two places at once it’s now, but wishing never did make things so. I’ll just have to hope and pray that Filbert has the good sense to take care of himself out there.

And as for Daddy, I say let him take a walloping. It might just do him good. Anyway, it serves him right for forcing us to help with his lying, cheating schemes.

But just as quick as those thoughts come to sloshing around in my head, even more thoughts come beating down the door to my heart.

Chestnut Hill, that’s your daddy out there. That crowd’ll kill him if they get the chance, and now’s their chance. What in the world are you thinking? Get up off this floor and help your poor old daddy right now!

Mama says the worst thing a body can be is conflicted, and with both the good and the bad thoughts sloshing together in my brain, I reckon you could say that conflicted is exactly what I am. Reckon all that’s left is to figure out which of them conflicting thoughts to listen to—the head thoughts, or the heart’s.

Stay here! I shout, jumping up and flinging an outstretched finger toward trembling Mac and blubbering Hazel.

Stopping just inside the doors of the wagon, I hesitate, studying the lay of the land. To the left, under the wide open arms of a stubby young sycamore, a crowd is gathered like angry bees around a hive. There are even children watching.

With angry fists shoved into the air, they’re hollering loud and stirring up the pot. In the dusky light of early evening, even a blind groundhog could see these folks are out for blood.

The men are wadded—on the ground—flopping around on top of each other like fresh-strung fish on a creek bank, dirt flying out from among them like dust storming the prairie.

And Filbert? Well, I don’t yet see my brother, but knowing him like I do, I’d say he’s right down in the thick of things, in the middle of that filthy wad.

All of a sudden and just as I’m about to jump from the wagon, one of those wadded floppers comes up for a breath of fresh air. Good thing, too, otherwise I might never have laid eyes on my brother—hanging on for dear life with one hand gripped to the back of that man’s shirt, clobbering him in the head and hollering, You get off my daddy right now!

Clearly the man’s a discombobulated mess, but Filbert’s hanging on, the same as he would if he was being bucked by a wild horse.

Jumping off the back of the wagon, I scoop up the first stick with a promise.

Whack!

Whack!

Whack! Whack!

I’m taking out wadded floppers faster than a bullfrog sucking up skeeters, and every single one I swat stands up, grabs his head, and staggers around like he’s not got a clue of what’s hit him.

Just as I pull way back on my stick, searching for my next flopper, something grabs hold to my arm.

2

HUSH!

Whoa there, little lady. That’ll be enough," he says, tearing the stick from my grip.

I suppose it was instinct that caused me to kick that man in the shin with my heel.

Hey! Now, cut that out! he shouts.

Breaking free of his hold, I whirl around and come nose hair to star tip with the badge on the pocket of his coffee-stained shirt. Mercy, if he’s going to walk around in public, the man really ought to wear a bib! But you can’t fool me. Stains or no stains, I’ve seen enough metal stars in my lifetime to know the man on the other side of that badge is a lawman.

I’m not scared though. Worst thing that can happen is for Daddy to be carted off to jail, and a lawman to have to find our poor sweet mama. We’d be reunited and live that happy-ever-after life I’ve read about in books.

Break it up now, boys, break it up. I mean it. Get up from that ground and go on home.

One by one, the wadded floppers stand from the pile and totter back to the arms of the stubby young sycamore, its leaves bobbing in the breeze like puffy petticoats at a square dance.

I reach out, grab Filbert by the arm, and pull him close, but he jerks free and runs over to stand by Daddy. Right now he’s looking more like a partner in crime than a favored son.

It’s then that Daddy stumbles to his feet and slaps the dust from his pants and the sleeves of his black suit. His coat is ripped at the shoulder and the bow tie around his neck is in shreds. Blood’s oozing from his nose, and his lip and his left eye’s the color of a fresh purple plum.

Look here, mister, the lawman begins. "I don’t know what happened here, although I’ve got a pretty good idea. I’m not rightly sure if you’re an honest salesman or not; suppose we won’t know that until a week or so has passed and the dust settles. What you need to do now though is collect your young’uns—all your young’uns—and your elixir, and get out of town."

Daddy hangs his head and doesn’t say a word. Matter of fact, he doesn’t move, and if I didn’t know better I’d say either that lawman or Filbert ought to check and see if Daddy’s breathing.

You understand what I’m saying? the lawman asks.

Daddy nods.

I don’t mean tomorrow or the next day either. Tonight, you hear?

I hear, Daddy mumbles.

The lawman props one hand on his pistol and wiggles his fingers over top, like he’s just itching to pull that gun from his holster and give it a fire. Mama says the only thing worse than a lawman with an itchy finger is a cantankerous newborn with the colic. Both get your nerves in a wad.

Filbert stares at Daddy, shifting his weight to one leg—just like Daddy. He squints, makes his lips form a straight line, and gives the lawman the evil eye.

I mean it now, the lawman says, ignoring Filbert’s glares. Get on up and out of here. If I come by this way again and see your wagon or that snake oil nonsense you’re shoving at innocent folks, I’ll haul you in and book you. You’ll be looking at no less than a week from the inside of a jail cell, understand?

He sets his eyes to the top of Daddy’s head.

Daddy scoops his hat from under the wagon, slaps it against his leg a time or two, and motions Filbert and me back up this stairs. His shoulders are slumped and saggy and he’s shuffling from one foot to the other faster than a monkey standing in the middle of a bonfire. Even a half-blind squirrel at the top of a tree could see that this lawman’s got Daddy agitated.

With his fingers wrapped around his hat so tight his knuckles are the color of lamb’s wool and him so twitchy and jumpy, I’ve got a feeling my daddy would give up everything he owns right at this minute in order to be able to just take off and go to running.

I don’t hesitate. I’ve seen that look from Daddy before, and he’s not playing, so, for the second time tonight, I give Filbert a shove and follow him into the wagon, bolting the door behind us.

Is Daddy all right? Mac asks, his lisp ringing out like church chimes with that first s he utters. His face is twisted in a worried-son sort of way, and I realize that for all his fun and games, Mac was born to be the worrier for the lot of us.

I nod.

Hazel, curled in a ball on her cot, is trembling so I think she’ll roll off and flop on the floor any minute. There’s nothing to do but reach down and pull her close.

Instantly she uncurls, crawls into my lap, and grips me around the neck as tight as a boa constrictor. Thank goodness she’s stopped her weeping and wailing—for now at least.

What are we going to do, Chestnut? she asks, snubbing and sniffing, making more sounds than a one-man band.

I shrug. Reckon we’ll be for getting out of town like the lawman said. Otherwise, Daddy will end up in jail.

I don’t want our daddy to go to jail. Hazel’s chin and bottom lip quiver with every word. Do you? She cradles my face in her hands, lifting my chin to look into my eyes. Do you, Chestnut? she repeats. Do you want Daddy to go to jail?

I stare at her for the longest time without responding, happy when Mac finally speaks up and shatters the silence.

For two years now folks have been letting their lawmen run us out of town. Why do people hate us anyway? With a quick whipping motion, he tosses the muddy water–colored hair from his brown eyes.

Trying to be as careful as I can of my words, I hesitate. Mac’s asking an awfully grown-up question for a seven-year-old.

Humph. Well, I say, as cautious as a one-legged lady on an icy pond, I don’t think they hate us as much as they hate what we do.

The wagon jerks backwards, and by that I know we’re on our way out of town. Old Stump’s clipping along in a run, so I reckoned Daddy must be fierce afraid of that lawman.

But all we’re doing is entertaining them, Hazel says, pitiful-like and whiny. And all the while she’s curling my raven-wing hair loosely around her finger. You know, just like Daddy says, giving them a good show for their money. Along with, well … you know …

She shrugs, her words trailing into nothingness, then cups her free hand around her mouth and leans in close. You know, she whispers into my ear, the stuff.

The elixir, I say, pulling away. It’s elixir, Hazel. It’s all right to call it what it is, you know. I shake my head until her finger lets loose of my hair. But folks don’t like to be lied to, and that’s what we’re doing. At least, that’s what Daddy’s making us do. Lie.

Chestnut Eleanora Hill? Daddy hollers. Get up here. Now.

Mama says penning a middle name to a young’un is solely for the purpose of giving them fair warning as to how much trouble they’re in. Reckon you might say I’m in a heap of trouble, and it just ain’t right, I tell you. A girl ought to set a good example for her kin.

I stand, gently pushing Hazel back onto her cot, and smooth down the front of my dress. I don’t look any of the three of them in the eyes, but reckon I don’t need to. They know what’s coming, same as me.

Yes, sir?

I lean forward and peek through the door.

Sit.

He bobs his head toward the seat, and I notice right off that his face is as red as a rooster’s comb. His hair, the color of rotting teeth, is unusually mussed and unkempt.

Yes, sir.

I crawl out and plop down on the seat beside Daddy, but I don’t look his way. There’s no need. I feel his eyes, staring, looking me up and down.

Swallowing the hot liquid that’s rising over and over again in my throat, I grip the wooden seat so tight my fingertips go numb.

Silence rolls over the front of that wagon so thick that if I could put pencil to paper, I would draw it like the jagged side of a steep rocky canyon on a frosty January morning. And it’s not a silence I’ve felt before in my twelve years of living. It’s a separating, dividing sort of quiet, cold and harsh and unfeeling.

Daddy don’t like the silence—seeing as how he’s an orphan and all. From the way he tells it, there wasn’t a second of silence in that orphanage he grew up in. Mama said the only reason he wanted to have so many babies in the first place is because he wanted the house to always be full of racket and noise.

After what seems like hours, I’m reckoning he’s so caught up in the road and the stillness of it all, he’s forgot I’m here, so I swallow down to my toes and muster up the courage to speak.

Daddy, I—

Hush.

I shudder, look away fast, and clamp down on my tongue, making it impossible for words to leak out without me knowing.

Old Stump clomps along the dirt-packed road in the darkness at a slower pace than before, with nothing but the shining of the round full moon with its smeared colors of cabbage moths and snowy-white Easter lilies to light the way.

The air is strangely cool for mid-July, and my stomach’s rumbling louder than a pack of wild cats trying to claw their way out of a well. But it’s not from the lack of food. It’s from the fear of my daddy’s rebuke.

Daddy don’t say a word, and for the longest time we ride in a cumbersome, clumsy sort of silence. With nothing to do but count the bushes and trees along the road, my mind starts painting, mixing in the navies and sapphires and midnight blues that all slosh together in one bucket to make up the purply black of the night sky. Cobwebby trees stretch across the dirt road like the