SNAKES IN THE GARDEN E.M. Walker
“You hear the rattlers in the corn, Cass?” From the edge of the field they could see acres of golden harvest. The girl heard nothing, save the wind singing in the stalks. “Can I get a closer look, Pop? ” she said, jumping up on the fence. He pulled her back down by the collar before she could slip any further. “No, honey,” he said, taking a gentle knee to meet her eye. Equals—the two of them. “They keep out the critters for me,” he said. “That means keeping us out, too. They only get to lettin’ me in once it’s time for harvest.” “But…” she started, losing the question somewhere between her teeth and her tongue. “What happens if we go in too early?” Cass knew her grandfather’s careful smile—the way his mouth sat on his face, thin lips upturned ever-so-slightly. His mouth drooped, his jaw taut with the weight of something she didn’t recognize. “That’s how you get bit, honey.” *** Every Sunday since God made the day, Ricky Scobell raced his stock car. He’d take his boys up to the old abandoned quarry by the junkyard—a canyon crafted by man’s hand. They’d gear up at the impromptu stands they’d built of junk 2x4s stuck at the end of a dusty, painted checkered line at what looked like a good starting point. Seven cars, always—Ricky’s boys never missed a race. Seven racers meant seven girlfriends; brothers and sisters always wanted in too. You name it: everyone up and down Sand Mountain wanted to see Ricky and his boys race. My bet’s on Henry today. Rick can’t win ‘em all. Henry? The kid’s good, but he ain’t Ricky. You know Rick’s always got my vote. That Ricky… he’s just like his pop. Their track was carved of dirt, snaked around the curves of the pit. Shaped like a pair of human lungs, the canyon looked just like the earth was breathing. From the road, you wouldn’t even know there was a canyon there—it just looked like an old pile of dirt and gravel. But if you wandered up the hill off the overpass past the third highway exit, just under the broken chain link, you’d find a path that led right to the boys’ track. One of their fathers owned the junkyard nearby and let the boys keep their cars tucked under a propped piece of sheet metal. Seven cars, all in all, arranged in a neat row just past the piles of mulch and forgotten debris. The quarry was older than the racers, the eldest of them hardly twenty. It was dug up decades ago by some oil or gravel company—nobody quite remembered. The sign said Ramblewood Management, but all Ricky and his boys ever saw was their own personal stadium. They’d line up at the straightest part of the cliff and race the length of the quarry: three laps. Some say if they timed it just right, the sun would hit its golden peak right as the winner tore across the finish line. Ricky didn’t always win, but nobody doubted that he was the best racer on Sand Mountain. They say it’s because his pop made it big back in the day running ‘shine—it was in his blood. When Ricky died, his mama buried an empty box. She had no choice—as far as anyone on Sand Mountain knew, his body was at the bottom of the Ramblewood quarry. Everyone had their theories as to how it happened. I heard it was his hand—twitched trying to turn. Must’ve been his brakes. Never seen a kid like that freeze.
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