“I like that about dreams,” Kathleen murmured. “They make up their own rules as they go along. They don’t always make logical sense, but they make emotional sense. Go on.”
“I was mowing the grass while y’all were kind of milling around,” I said, “and as I was mowing the steep part of the bank, where it angles down toward the ditch, I saw a hole in the ground I’d never seen before. It was big—a foot in diameter—and while I was staring at it, trying to figure out why it was there, I saw a pair of eyes, like glowing red coals, deep inside, and then this immense snake came slithering slowly toward me, slithering out of the hole. It was as big around as the hole, and long—fifteen, twenty feet long.” She held me tighter, running her fingers through my hair and scratching my head to keep me connected to her, to keep me grounded. “It was like the snake knew me—knew all of us. Like he’d been lurking in our midst for a long time, I’d just never noticed him before. And I could tell he was about to do something terrible—to kill one of us, or kill all of us—and I had to stop him. He’d already killed my father—I knew this because the snake’s face looked a little bit like my father’s face—and I knew that he’d been following me ever since he killed my dad. Lurking just out of sight. Biding his time, waiting for the sinister signal or the evil impulse—whatever it was that guided him—to hiss now and cause him to strike. So I ran and got the hoe, and I started chopping him with it. He was coming at me and I was chopping, and chopping, and chopping. I finally managed to cut off his head, but while I was busy chopping off his head, his tail was coiling around me, and by the time the head was off, I was completely trapped in the coils, and the head was looking at me, still alive, the eyes still glowing red. And then I saw more glowing red eyes, deep in the hole in the ground. Another huge snake came slithering out, and then another, and another, and another.”
In the dream’s final scene, the snakes dispersed throughout the yard, scattering and yet somehow moving in concert—a choreography of venomous intent—converging on my loved ones, who remained innocent and unaware of the approaching menace. The father-snake’s eyes watched, the vertical slits narrowing, as I fought to break free, as I struggled to shout a warning, as the tightening coils rendered me immobile and mute, impotent to stop the impending evil.
The horror of the scene gripped me once more as I described it. “God,” I said. “God.”
With the tips of her fingers, Kathleen gently closed my eyelids. Then she covered my face with soft kisses, saying, “Mmm, salty.” Next she kissed my neck and my chest. Then, as I lay on my back, my eyes still closed, she knelt astride me, touching me, taking me in: reminding me that there was goodness and sweetness in the world, too—irrational, inexplicable, and remarkably powerful goodness, too.
CHAPTER 10
Satterfield
SATTERFIELD DAWDLED, TAKING HIS sweet time filling out the deposit slip, allowing two customers to get into the teller queue ahead of him.
“Next, please?”
His timing was perfect; Satterfield’s favorite teller, Sheila, smiled in his direction as she said it. Sheila was a good-looking blonde, not young—hell, she might even be the other side of forty—but she was still hot, and she knew it; she worked it: lots of jewelry, tight skirts, silk blouses, the top two buttons always unbuttoned—enough to flash some cleavage and even some bra if she leaned forward just right.
“Must be my lucky day,” Satterfield said, giving her his best smile as he strolled up to her window.
She smiled back, her eyes flicking downward long enough to check out the black T-shirt stretched tight across his chest and biceps. “What can we do for you today?”
“Well, for starters, you could deposit this. The eagle has landed.” He slid the Social Security check across the counter. She took it and turned it over, glancing at the spidery signature Satterfield had forged on the endorsement line.
“Did you want this in your mother’s account?”
“Sure. Her pension, her account.” In point of fact, it made no difference which account the money went to; Satterfield’s name was on her account, and he’d phone later—to a different branch—and have the money transferred into his. Meanwhile, it served his purposes to appear the doting, dutiful son to Sheila.