seemed to unfold before us, and I could swear I heard violin music from nowhere. I searched for a reply worthy of Royce. I searched too long.
A bloodcurdling scream from over our heads cut Sunday afternoon in two.
Then mingled screams, from up in the attic, and crashing and banging like you never heard. Royce came up in a crouch.
We both heard Grandma’s feet hit the floor by her bed. When she galloped into the front room, she was wearing an old bathrobe and Grandpa Dowdel’s Romeo house shoes. Her spectacles hung from one ear. On her way through the kitchen she’d grabbed up her twelve-gauge Winchester from behind the woodbox.
“Where’s it coming from?” she demanded.
Royce shied at the sight of the gun, and Grandma, but we both pointed to the ceiling. Plaster dust sifted down. Now the crashing and banging and running into things was coming from straight overhead, from Arnold Green’s room.
“Hoo-boy,” Grandma said.
When Royce could tear his eyes off Grandma in sleep-wear, heavily armed, he knocked back his lemonade. The noise from above was still terrific, like the ceiling could give way any second now. But Royce looked ready for anything, except what happened next.
Somebody was thundering down the stairs. When she came into view, it was Maxine Patch, the postmistress. Draped and coiled all over her was the biggest snake I’ve ever seen outside the Brookfield Zoo.
Maxine was screaming for her life, and that snake was all over her. It looped around her shoulders where it seemed to have dropped on her. It clung to one of her sizable hips. And there was still snake to spare.
And though I couldn’t believe my eyes—and heaven knows, Royce couldn’t believe his—the snake was all that Maxine wore.
She did a dance around the platform rocker, barefoot. Bare everything except for a rose in her hair. She was all ghastly pale flesh and black snake. And she couldn’t shake that snake for all the shimmying in the world.
Grandma worked around her to get the front door open. With a scream and a hiss, Maxine and the snake leaped through it. They did a fast Hawaiian hula off the porch and skimmed around the snowball bushes, making for town.
“That’s too good a show to keep to ourselves,” Grandma said.
With the thought, she was through the door and out in the front yard. Planting her house shoes, she jammed the Winchester into her shoulder, aimed high, and squeezed off both barrels. The world exploded. Birds rose shrieking from the trees, and the town woke with a start.
Royce and I watched from the door. I was half dead with embarrassment. Royce rubbed the back of his neck in a dazed way, but he was all eyes when it came to Maxine’s retreating figure. We saw the snake drop off her just as she left our property.
But Maxine kept going, racing for the post office. She lived with her folks, the Ivan Patches, but she couldn’t go home wearing only a rose. Did she think she could make it all the way to the post office unnoticed? If she’d been thinking at all, she’d have doubled back to brave Grandma and get her clothes. But she didn’t. When people alerted by the gunfire ran to their windows, they saw Maxine Patch as nature intended, speeding past their houses and straight into the annals of undying fame.
Grandma dragged the shotgun back to the porch pillar. There she sagged and seemed to weep, in mirth or joy. Then she came on back inside, pushing past Royce, who seemed turned to stone, though he was never a big talker.
“Grandma, what in the world was a snake that big doing in the house?” I said, at the end of my rope. “What was any snake doing in here?”
She propped the smoking gun against the marble-topped table to wipe her wet eyes. She hooked her spectacles over both ears. “That snake lives here, up in the attic.”
So that was what had been thumping right over my room all this time. A hideous, huge, coiling, striking snake directly over my head. Bootsie knew.
“Grandma,
A bloodcurdling scream from over our heads cut Sunday afternoon in two.
Then mingled screams, from up in the attic, and crashing and banging like you never heard. Royce came up in a crouch.
We both heard Grandma’s feet hit the floor by her bed. When she galloped into the front room, she was wearing an old bathrobe and Grandpa Dowdel’s Romeo house shoes. Her spectacles hung from one ear. On her way through the kitchen she’d grabbed up her twelve-gauge Winchester from behind the woodbox.
“Where’s it coming from?” she demanded.
Royce shied at the sight of the gun, and Grandma, but we both pointed to the ceiling. Plaster dust sifted down. Now the crashing and banging and running into things was coming from straight overhead, from Arnold Green’s room.
“Hoo-boy,” Grandma said.
When Royce could tear his eyes off Grandma in sleep-wear, heavily armed, he knocked back his lemonade. The noise from above was still terrific, like the ceiling could give way any second now. But Royce looked ready for anything, except what happened next.
Somebody was thundering down the stairs. When she came into view, it was Maxine Patch, the postmistress. Draped and coiled all over her was the biggest snake I’ve ever seen outside the Brookfield Zoo.
Maxine was screaming for her life, and that snake was all over her. It looped around her shoulders where it seemed to have dropped on her. It clung to one of her sizable hips. And there was still snake to spare.
And though I couldn’t believe my eyes—and heaven knows, Royce couldn’t believe his—the snake was all that Maxine wore.
She did a dance around the platform rocker, barefoot. Bare everything except for a rose in her hair. She was all ghastly pale flesh and black snake. And she couldn’t shake that snake for all the shimmying in the world.
Grandma worked around her to get the front door open. With a scream and a hiss, Maxine and the snake leaped through it. They did a fast Hawaiian hula off the porch and skimmed around the snowball bushes, making for town.
“That’s too good a show to keep to ourselves,” Grandma said.
With the thought, she was through the door and out in the front yard. Planting her house shoes, she jammed the Winchester into her shoulder, aimed high, and squeezed off both barrels. The world exploded. Birds rose shrieking from the trees, and the town woke with a start.
Royce and I watched from the door. I was half dead with embarrassment. Royce rubbed the back of his neck in a dazed way, but he was all eyes when it came to Maxine’s retreating figure. We saw the snake drop off her just as she left our property.
But Maxine kept going, racing for the post office. She lived with her folks, the Ivan Patches, but she couldn’t go home wearing only a rose. Did she think she could make it all the way to the post office unnoticed? If she’d been thinking at all, she’d have doubled back to brave Grandma and get her clothes. But she didn’t. When people alerted by the gunfire ran to their windows, they saw Maxine Patch as nature intended, speeding past their houses and straight into the annals of undying fame.
Grandma dragged the shotgun back to the porch pillar. There she sagged and seemed to weep, in mirth or joy. Then she came on back inside, pushing past Royce, who seemed turned to stone, though he was never a big talker.
“Grandma, what in the world was a snake that big doing in the house?” I said, at the end of my rope. “What was any snake doing in here?”
She propped the smoking gun against the marble-topped table to wipe her wet eyes. She hooked her spectacles over both ears. “That snake lives here, up in the attic.”
So that was what had been thumping right over my room all this time. A hideous, huge, coiling, striking snake directly over my head. Bootsie knew.
“Grandma,
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