8 minute read
DOG DAYS by Michael Spake WELL DONE! Fiction
DOG DAYS by Michael Spake
The Dog Star rises with the sun announcing the arrival of deep summer. Yards turn to dry brown scabs. Barefoot children dance on sizzling sidewalks jumping from shady spot to shady spot. Dogs pant all day, too hot to chase a slow-moving car as gnats buzz around their faces. Birds do not sing, and insects do not chirp. Worst, snakes go blind with milky eyes and turn mean. The Dog Days, scorching days filled with peril.
My grandmother, Hazel, had a vigor for life filled with grace and a pleasant dottiness. I never knew my grandfather. He died from a heart attack at fifty-five years old. I was only two. My father says it was because he could not stay “out of the sauce.” My mother does not talk about it other than her constant reminder, “I was teaching when I heard the ambulance race by the school. I knew it was Daddy, and he was already dead.”
His death drew a dreary circle of grief around my mother, causing her to fear the past repeating itself, or as she would say, “I just know I am going show up one day at mother’s house and find her dead on the floor.”
My mother guards against the past by telephoning Hazel several times each day to check on her. When Hazel does not answer, my mother suspects the worst and drives to her house. Most days, Hazel’s long tan Oldsmobile with its Jesus Saves bumper sticker is gone, and my mother breathes a sigh of relief. On days like today, however, her long brown Oldsmobile sits in the carport.
My mother continues to call. Each time, she says, “I just can’t live through another death like Daddy. Somebody needs to go over with the house key.” I do not understand my mother's grief. Still, I volunteer, remembering the last time Hazel could not hear her cordless phone it was because she was sitting on it in her recliner.
For me, Hazel’s house has always been a respite from the intensity of my parent’s home. She lives an authentic life filled with joy and without concern for the past or the future. Her cut glass candy dish is always full of Brach’s old-fashioned ribbon candy. She serves me hotdog wieners and French fries on Dixie paper plates and Coca-Cola in “reused” red solo cups. She always has a bread box full of Hostess Chocolate Cupcakes bought from the thrift shop, just for me. On special occasions Hazel will invite me to Bojangles. She always takes a Ziploc bag of cut cantaloupe in her purse to eat with Bojangles’ sausage gravy.
Hazel lives as a God-fearing Baptist. She attends Orr Mill Baptist Church each Sunday and goes to gospel singings every Friday night. As a teenager, Hazel’s slight shade of darkness and her genuine belief in superstitions intrigues me, especially her beliefs about the Dog Days.
I arrive at Hazel’s house. Out of the car, I feel the muggy heat hit me in the face as beads of sweat rise from my pores. I hear the shuffle of Hazel’s gold-glittered bedroom slippers and watch her leave the back porch and walk toward the house. Her lips are pressed tight. This unusual look of caution alerts me that something is amiss. I look closer and see a hammer in one hand. The other is bleeding.
I watch Hazel approach the house and announce myself, “Good morning. Do you need help with anything?”
Hazel gives a forced smile and replies, “Naw, I’s just on the back porch and coming inside to bandage my hand. Come on in, and I’ll get you something.”
Inside, Hazel washes her hands, and I grab a bottle of Coke out of the refrigerator and find two red solo cups in the cabinet. We sit together at the kitchen table. Hazel remains quiet as she bandages her hand. I casually ask, “What happened to your hand?”
Hazel tries to sit tall, but osteoporosis hunched her back many years ago. She shifts her weight forward and looks me in the eye as if preparing to speak to my soul. I see cataracts through her cloudy blue eyes, but they do not blur her message. I prepare myself to listen as Hazel begins.
“I was sitting at this here the kitchen table by the telephone when I heard a strange rattle in the drawer.”
Hazel points her arthritic finger at the drawer beside the refrigerator. I know it well. As a child, I plundered through all the random things she threw in it, old keys, coins, and clothespins.
“The rattle, like a jar of coins, became a rustling. It went from the front to the back. A contracting sound, like a heartbeat.”
I raise my eyebrows, wondering what made the drawer come alive, and move to the edge of my chair.
“I had heard enough, so I opened the drawer. It was at that moment when I saw evil staring right at me. A long, thick, black snake, about the length of my arm, with a sleek crown holding vile milky eyes. It raised its hideous head, and I tried to grab the soulless creature but missed. It must have tasted fear at my reach because it flicked its forked tongue and fled to the back of the drawer and into the next drawer.”
My mouth goes slack as I excitedly say, “Oh my goodness. A snake.”
Hazel continues in an almost honeyed voice, “Yes, a snake and I chased that devil through each drawer until the end of the counter. Once it was finally pinned in, I grabbed it by the head.”
Almost shaking with nervous excitement, I recall the feeling of Hazel’s arthritic hands and how she always grabs both my cheeks for a kiss. Her thick nails and gem-encrusted rings dig into my tender face. There is no escaping her loving grasp, and attempting to escape only makes it worse.
“After I grabbed it, it coiled its scales around my arm and squeezed. I was going outside with it when the phone rang and I answered it. The preacher was calling because I missed church yesterday. I explained I was okay, just a stomachache some ginger ale and soda crackers cured by mid-morning.”
I feel my pounding chest as Hazel continues, “We talked for about twenty minutes. But as we talked, the snake somehow loosened its head and started biting my hand. I would have said something, but I knew the preacher was about to finish because he asked if he could pray for me.”
My skin tingles from the neck down as I picture the moment’s symbolism. I look at Hazel. She is unshaken, like a rock. I scratch my head and ask, “Why on earth did you answer the phone when you had a snake wrapped around your arm?”
Without pause, Hazel replies, “I thought it may be your mother, and you know how she always throws a duck fit when I do not answer the phone.”
I give a big chuckle that shakes my shoulders. “Yeah, I get it. But why did you keep talking once you found out it was not Mom?”
A slight blush creeps across Hazel’s face as she replies, “Why, I’d be embarrassed if other people knew I had a snake in my house, especially the preacher.”
I slowly nod and smile. There is a slight pause until I remember to ask, “What did you do with the snake?”
Without flinching, Hazel replies, “I took it out on the back porch and killed it.”
My mouth falls open. “With a hammer?”
Hazel nods.
Hazel’s hand stopped bleeding as we finished our red solo cups of Coke in reverent silence. I look at my watch and rise out of my chair. “Well, I better get home before Mom thinks we are up to something.”
Walking out the back door, I peer onto the back porch. The snake, unrecognizable and crushed from head to tail, is now almost as wide as long. I turn back to Hazel, who leans over and pulls me in for a kiss. “Now, don’t tell your momma about the snake when you get home. Just tell her I was out sitting on the porch. She would throw one heck of a fuss if she knew I caught and killed a snake.”
A smile back at Hazel and, with a wink of my eye, say, “This one is just ‘tween you and me.”
