Authors: James Braziel
Tags: #Action & Adventure, #Science Fiction, #Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic, #General
Snakeskin Road (38 page)
Clouds drifted overhead and her lungs still burned from the river. And she knew, all these rivers had held her body up, the mud-water had shifted around her. “The earth’s blood”—that’s what Terry called rivers, driving along the edges, and when she went down, at each place, to clean off the dust and dirt, she found her history carried along the currents, shifting, returning, waiting for her to know it again.
Where was she going now?
Patrick Carson had asked if they wanted to make a run to his boat when they were stuck behind the trunk. But Jennifer had to keep going to Chicago. It was all she had left. She gave Mazy her box; something told Jennifer they might not go together.
Up front, the man was humming, his right arm dangling over the middle, relaxed, and his hair, the wind kept pushing, flying it around. He was humming, splitting the wind, and she smelled the warm leather of the seats, her own blood.
The wooden knuckles of Jinx’s hands spread over the keyboard—she could see it clearly. He was at his piano at the St. Charles working through his center-roots, creating them, lengthening them, shortening them until they touched the different ends of the water and that black space between the currents and into her, the sound came into her, the water lapped and lapped over her, refusing to leave.
I tied the ropes strong around her wrists and ankles, tied
her arms to her waist and legs, dumped her body in the back, secured her with the belts, and I took out the shotgun, angling the barrel into the floorboard on the passenger side. I left the Remington in the trunk with the propane tanks and food. Then I cranked the engine, reached back, and said, “Don’t worry. I’m just taking you home.”
Halfway down 51 I let the top down and started humming. It was “At Calvary,” Mam’s favorite. I didn’t realize that was what I was doing and I didn’t dare sing it—my voice was nothing good. But Mam always sang it with a cheerfulness, setting her shoulders into it, swinging them, her whole body arched at the world, ready—it was the one time when she was sure of herself and I became sure of myself. She had what she called a “mid-range voice,” and the notes never reached too high, but it had a smoothness that carried me and carries me still.
I thought of the light that afternoon before we went to the revival, how it swung under the porch overhang and
lighted across Mam’s back and how happy she seemed, and even when she giggled with Harold, the three of us walking up Grandview. As much as I didn’t like Harold, hated him, it was nice to hear Mam giggle. Her voice shot through me, and I smiled, even though it also pained me.
Later that night when she got bit, her face was all contorted and flushed, and the moment right after, while Harold and Preacher Spoon argued over what to do with her, I wanted to reach down with my failed hands,
lay hands
on her like Preacher Spoon talked about and redeem us both. I’d put my hands on her red sash and lift her to the Lord. Then the red sash unraveled in my mind, just a skein of satin with no body to hold; and she was gone.
The sun was burning strong across the acres of cut corn, and the fields left with only a few remaining husks rattled as if I were driving the wind that rattled them, and the Lord, there was no way He’d catch up. Before me the flat side of the earth stretched out, unending.
Dear Mama
,
I’m hurting. And the sky, it has tilted slightly, has moved toward me. A selfish thing to think, that the sky would tilt toward me. But what it is, I’m having a difficult time stopping myself from unraveling like a small dust devil when it loses its center and breaks apart. Scatters. I keep pulling into myself so I don’t scatter. I find you here waiting. Your presence is comforting. Once I’m healed enough, I’ll get to you and Mazy. She’ll be with you soon, I promise. Even this hurt turning through my body, the pain will slow, and I’ll find my way north
.
If I could reach my hand out, I’d touch your shoulder. Remember how you slept on Terry’s shoulder and I slept against the passenger window on our jaunts? I could put my hand out and rub your arm, pull you awake. That smell of diesel, and outside the door, the wind blowing the dust against us and a little farther the river. Right now I’m riding in a car, but the driver can’t go this way forever, just like Terry couldn’t. He’ll have to turn
.
The wind keeps knocking at the door and glass, so much that the sky has been pulled and is tilting toward me. Almost Mama, I can feel your cotton shirt catching in my dry hands
.
I’m putting my hand on you now, Mama. Pull me to you. I’m ready
.
This book came together with the help of many people. I want to thank Jana for her love, caring, patience, insight, and editing. Dylan for his paintings. Maddie for our conversations. And Jessi for her laughter. I want to thank my father for his stories about his parents and about my hometown. I want to thank him for answering all my questions and for his thoughtfulness. My mother, for her kindness and attentiveness and for the stories about her parents. Ron and Judy Evans for their caring. Noah Eaker for his guidance, his insights, and for taking this project on. Juliet Ulman for her editing and sincerity. And Joshua Pasternak for his encouragement. Amy Stout-Moran for her advocacy. Stan Corkin for a place to write. Russel Durst for time to write. Jay Twomey, Michael Griffith, and Brock Clarke for being sounding boards. Tony Grooms for his graciousness. And Molly Gaudry and her dog Reinita, who visited during the hot Cincinnati summers to keep me company.
J
AMES
B
RAZIEL
has published short stories in
Berkeley Fiction Review, Chattahoochee Review
, and
Clackamas Literary Review
, among other journals.
Weathervane
, a chapbook of his poetry, was published in 2003 and nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He has also been the recipient of an Individual Artist Grant from the Georgia Council for the Arts. He currently teaches creative writing at the University of Cincinnati.
Snakeskin Road
is his second novel.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by James Braziel
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
B
ANTAM
B
OOKS
and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
“Swimmer, Blessed Sea” and “Sparrow Bones” from
Red Suitcase
by Naomi Shihab Nye, copyright (c) 1994 by Naomi Shihab Nye.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Braziel, James.
Snakeskin road / James Braziel.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-553-90678-3
1. Women refugees—Fiction. 2. Environmental refugees—
Fiction. 3. Climatic changes—Fiction.
4. Desertification—Fiction. 5. Regression (Civilization)—
Fiction. I. Title.
PS3602.R398S63 2009 813’.6—dc22 2009018753
www.bantamdell.com
v3.0
