Eastern Garter
Mark RubinHe crushed the skull of the garter snake with a rake, a few extra whacks for good measure, and said, That’ll teach him I’m not sure the snake had time for a lesson learned or second thoughts about a mouse for lunch, a snooze among the late blooming asters. My sister ran off for all the right reasons and the snake’s tail would not stop wiggling. Wet, flushed, narrow-eyed, my dad’s face shape-shifted as if he had taken a steam sauna to sweat out the bad. Because the air stunk of Armco Steel, because birds had singled out his windshield, because he could not say, I love you too, because he’d not learned to schmooze, because he hid nudie magazines in his sock drawer, because a knife blade needs a whetstone, because no one thanked him enough— he flung the snake into the weeds. Made speechless, I watched as if through someone else’s eyes. For a split second, the crackling insects were mute, shape and meaning out of sync. First thought, best thought: bury it, this poor frayed rope of a snake, anywhere but here. I took it in both hands
to my clubhouse and operating room where I had trained in thoracic surgery, thanks in part to worm dissection guides. I cleaned its body of blood with cotton balls, laid it on a white cloth, and apologized for my dad, and for cutting through the soft center line of its belly. I wanted to find and touch its heart, as no one had, as mine had been touched. Concentrate is what I told myself. Don’t cry.