43

Walton, NY—less than three days before Billy’s murder

Billy was still thinking about that first time, back in Alabama in 1984.  The memories were so real that he could reach out and touch them...

...His father, “Brother” Richard, lifted the mature, timber rattlesnake from the wooden box with his right hand, supporting the belly of the serpent with his left, and held it aloft for everyone to see.  Billy sucked in his breath, and felt his heartbeat triple its pace inside the small cavity of his little boy’s chest.  He had never been so terrified—yet fascinated—in all his young life.  Part of him wanted to flee; and yet part of him wanted to get closer.  All the while, his father moved the snake rhythmically from side to side, displaying the creature as though it were some kind of precious treasure.

“Come on, children,” said his mother.  “Let’s get you two up closer, so’s you can get a better look.”

Billy’s mama began walking toward the front of the assembly, leading her son and daughter gently by their hands.  Young Bill followed, stiff-legged, never taking his eyes off his father—and the snake.  His sister, on the other hand, ambled forward without fear.  In less than a minute, they had reached the stage.  His father and the rattlesnake were less than five feet away.  The serpent swayed to and fro, its forked tongue flicking the air in a twittering manner that reminded Billy of a small bird flapping its wings in an effort to get airborne.  Only this wasn’t a bird; it was a deadly rattlesnake, and it frightened Billy to death.  Just then, the reptile turned sharply in his father’s hands and made a hissing sound in Billy’s direction.  It was almost as if it were staring with its lifeless eyes directly at the little boy.  Billy felt something warm and wet on his leg, and looking down, saw to his horror that he had wet himself.

“Mama,” he cried, looking up at his mother.  “I want to go home.”

Billy’s mother looked down at him, and then at the widening stain across the front of his trousers.  “Now look what you gone and done.  You done wet your pants.”  His sister turned, stared at him, and then laughed.

Billy closed his eyes and wished with all his might that he were invisible.  But, when he opened them again, he realized that his wish had not come true.  Instead, he could feel the eyes of his younger sister upon him, as she continued to stare at the widening stain.

“Billy wet his pants,” she said, pointing at his crotch and laughing even harder.

Billy wished again that he were invisible—or, better yet, dead.  And the more he tried to will himself to be invisible, the harder his sister laughed.

The rest of the evening went by in a blur, but one image was burned forever into Billy’s memory.  At some point during the service, his sister actually took hold of the snake and paraded around fearlessly with it, pushing it in the direction of those curious enough to come close.  And as she did, she would turn and stare at Billy, mocking him, almost as if to say, “See.  I’m not afraid like you.”

* * * *

The next morning, when he awoke, Billy remembered the events of the night before, and hoped, perhaps, that the whole thing might have been nothing more than a dream.  He breathed a sigh of relief.  That was it, he thought, it was just a bad dream.  But, to his horror, when he entered the kitchen for breakfast, he found that his dream had turned into a full-blown nightmare.  Someone had taken a Polaroid picture of the event, and there, fastened to the kitchen wall with a thumbtack, was a photograph of his sister holding the snake.  But, what made it even worse was that in the background of the photo, clearly visible, was the image of Billy—with the dark, incriminating stain of shame upon his pants.  At that moment, he swore to himself that he’d get even with his sister if it were the last thing he ever did.

* * * *

By the time Billy was fifteen, his father’s relationship with his sister had morphed from one of simple paternal affection to a bizarre bond that was at the very least unnatural—if not downright unholy.  In many ways Winona had become her father’s supplicant.  Often times the two would disappear into the barn, and not emerge for hours, the pretext always being their common affinity for the snakes; something Billy would “never understand,” according to his father.  Sounds of giggling and muffled chatter would give way to noises more sensual in their character.  Once or twice Billy swore he actually heard his father moaning in that certain way usually reserved for those occasions when he would assault their mother while on a drunk.

As if to confirm his suspicions, Winona would openly taunt him upon returning to the house, sticking her tongue out and moving her hands seductively over her immature body in ways that left little to Billy’s adolescent imagination.  Occasionally, she would even go so far as to rub herself against him, flicking her wet tongue along his neck, testing his resolve to the fullest, while eliciting involuntary erections that only deepened his sense of shame.  His father, in marked contrast, would pick up his Bible and immerse himself in its contents, as if doing so provided a valid disclaimer to his actual deeds.  But Billy knew better—or at least suspected so.  His mother’s behavior was an enigma.  If she knew—or even suspected—what was happening between her husband and their daughter, she never let on.  Instead, she busied herself around the house, occupying her time with an endless array of tasks, consisting mostly of cleaning and more cleaning.  To Billy, it was as if she were symbolically cleansing her soul.

But, there was more.  His father drank incessantly; and, when he drank, he beat them—not Billy’s sister, of course, just Billy and his mother.  Afterwards, there would be the “loving,” as his father called the making-up process.  In reality, there was nothing loving about it; it was more like passive rape, with his mother as the victim.  Billy would lie in bed and listen as his father took out his rage on his mother, who would weep quietly in submission until the ordeal was over.  Eventually his father would fall asleep, his snoring so loud that Billy could actually feel the paper-thin walls vibrating.  Then came the familiar sound of the shower in the adjacent bathroom, as his mother stood beneath the running water, no doubt attempting to wash away her shame.

The next morning, it would be as if nothing had ever happened.  At least that’s the way it would appear to a casual observer.  But Billy knew it was only a matter of time before something would occur that would change his life for the better; he just didn’t know what that “something” would be.