Ed Gorman - Save The Last Dance For Me

“And I suppose the Lord wants you to put those snakes on me?”

“You’re not pure.”

I flung myself forward, hitting the floor and rolling to the right. I was slower than I’d hoped and he was much, much faster. He put a bullet about three inches from my head. It ripped up some concrete and ricocheted off the far shadowy wall.

You could smell the gunfire; the rattle of it echoed in the small place.

“Get up.”

He came over and kicked my ankle so hard it felt broken.

“You bastard.”

He kicked me again in the same place. Even harder.

“The next time you use a word like that, I’ll put a bullet in your brain.”

The bullet or the snake? They each frightened me but in different ways. At least a bullet didn’t have those glassy eyes and those fangs and that forked tongue and that-But I got to my feet. I didn’t want to die on the floor there. Got to my feet and tried to stand tall but it was difficult and not just because I’m short. It was difficult because my right ankle hurt so much where he’d kicked me.

He grabbed me by the shoulder and flung me on the altar.

There had to be at least three of them, maybe four.

They made even more noise than the bullet had. Angry, filthy noise.

I stumbled on the altar platform and sprawled facedown before the small raised box on top of which the snake cage sat.

“Stand up.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“You said you were pure? I’ll give you the chance to prove it.”

“I’m not going to handle those snakes.”

“I’m sick of talk, you. Now stand up.”

The pain in my ankle was fading much faster than I had thought possible. But I didn’t want him to kick me again. This time he’d probably break bone.

“I’m not afraid of the snakes because I’m true to my Lord.”

“Is that why you slapped your wife the night Muldaur died? Because the Lord wanted you to?”

“He’s ordained that sometimes man needs to instruct woman in the ways of righteousness.”

“And that includes slapping them around?”

“I don’t take any pleasure in it, if that’s what you mean. I do it because the Lord has ordained it. I’d be committing a sin if I didn’t do it.”

All the time the hissing continued.

“Sometimes one man must instruct another man in the ways of righteousness, too.”

“That’s what you’re doing with me?”

“You need to know if you’re impure. I’m actually doin’ you a favor.”

“Gosh, thanks so much.”

He prodded me with his toe just above the ankle.

I really didn’t want to get kicked again. I pushed myself to my feet. Sometimes, you kid yourself and think you’re tough. But then something like this happens.

I’d banged my head on the floor just now and had a headache. My ankle was sore. I was pasty with sweat. And all I could hear were the snakes.

I was being pushed toward them. They may not actually have been louder, they may not actually have been angrier. But they sure sounded that way. I stumbled toward them.

He clubbed me on the side of the head hard with his rifle barrel.

I dropped to my knees before I realized where I’d be: kneeling next to the snake cage.

“Open it up.”

He had to shout to be heard above the hiss and rattle.

I just looked at him. Terrible things were going on in my throat, my chest, my bowels.

“You open that up and grab one of ‘em. If it don’t bite you then you are judged worthy by Divine Wisdom.”

I couldn’t talk. Literally. I tried. But my throat was raw and dry with fear. Only a few inches and a mesh of metal kept the rattlers at bay.

I wondered if he’d really shoot me. He seemed crazed but was he that crazed? And-a wild thought that should have occurred to me much earlier-what had he been doing in the Muldaur trailer so early in the morning? He’d arrived before I had. What was his exact relationship to Viola Muldaur? Was he pure? Could he pass the snake test?

Then he did it. Leaned in, unlatched the simple lock that held the lid down on the cage.

“I’m makin’ it easy for you.”

And for the second time, he fired his weapon.

One year at camp I’d slept in the grass and during the night a bat kept flying inches over my face. I always remembered the heat of its passage. The bullet was like that now. The heat of its passage.

I did a kind of dance on my knees, jerking sideways, frontways, slamming into the snake cage. And then doing, in simple animal reaction, the unthinkable.

I reached my arm out and grabbed the far side of the cage to keep it from falling off the low table it was resting on. And then I jerked back, astonished at my stupidity as the snakes flew out at me, at least two snakes arcing their heads into the top of the cage, trying to get at me.

“Open it!” Oates shouted.

And then swung the rifle barrel into the side of my head again. My entire consciousness was sliding into pain. It was getting difficult for me to think.

I nudged up against the cage.

He swung the rifle around yet another time.

This time I consciously stopped myself from bumping against the cage.

And this time I realized how I could get out of this situation, rifle or no rifle.

It was not without risk. There would be a few seconds there when the snakes would be close to me, able to bite me and hold on if they wanted to.

But I didn’t have much choice. The snakes or the religious crackpot-y decide.

“Open it,” he said. His voice was raw now.

He’d glimpsed the future. One of the snakes striking me, filling me with poison. He spoke in the raspy tone of true passion.

So I opened it.

But I kept hold of the handle to the lid. And instead of shoving my hand inside, I used the handle to swing the entire cage around and fling it at him.

He screamed like a young boy.

He fired two shots.

And he dropped his gun when one of the flying rattlers slapped him across the face.

The gun discharged when it hit the floor.

I was already halfway down the aisle, my sore ankle be damned, heading for my ragtop.

I went home and took a very cold shower. I stood in there fifteen minutes trying to get snake off me. Part of it was psychological, of course. You couldn’t scrub away a sense of snake. It stayed with you for a long, long time.

I’d just finished getting into some clean summer-weight clothes-white short-sleeved shirt, blue-on-blue striped necktie, blue slacks, black socks, black loafers-when the phone rang.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“He called and said that he still loved you.”

“Yeah, sort of, anyway.”

“So you’re going to see him.”

“Tonight. That’s why I called. I told him I was with you last night and I think he got jealous. He started insisting that we get together tonight.”

“You know something?”

“What?”

“I’d do the same thing you would. I’d go.”

“Really?”

“Are you kidding? Look at all the times I went running back to Pamela.”

“Yeah, I guess you were kind of a glutton for punishment.”

“Well, as one glutton to another, why not give it a try?” I said.

“You think it might actually lead somewhere?”

“Probably not,” I said. “But it’s nice to have a little hope again, isn’t it?”

“Hearing “maybe” is always better than hearing “no.””

“That’s right,” I said.

“Even if “maybe” is a lie?”

I sighed. “Yeah, kiddo, even if “maybe” is a lie.”

“You’re really a wise man, McCain. You should run for pope or something.”

“I was thinking of that. I’d like to wear that hat he does. You know that really tall one? With the lifts I have in my shoes, that hat would make me seven feet.”