Part 2Cottonmouth Son

The nightmare didn’t end. Uncle Ray came over for the next several days. Sometimes in the afternoon, sometimes late at night. Grandma Maeve had consulted some old root doctor who told her the best times for conceiving a boy.

Each time he came, Mama and Clara would cry. And when their crying got on Daddy’s nerves, he’d take Mama outside and beat her quiet.

I stopped going to school. I’d stand watch by the front door, and the second I saw Uncle Ray’s pickup truck kicking up dust down the road, I’d bolt the door. It only earned me a beating from Grandma Maeve, who’d grab me by my braids and thrash me.

“You little snake! You tryin’ to keep me from my grandson?”

“You’re the snake! I hope you never get one!” I screamed back one day, fueled by a courage I didn’t know I had.

The world went fuzzy as my head slammed against the stone wall of the well. “Good-for-nothing brat!” she shrieked, banging my head against the stone again and again. “I’ll teach you to talk back!”

If Mama hadn’t run out and pulled her off, she would have killed me right there.

…

The universe has a funny way of settling debts. After a few days, Uncle Ray stopped coming. Grandma Maeve paced the porch, muttering, “Where’s he got to? These are the last good days this month.”

They found him in the old dry well at the edge of the woods. Starved to death. The town just figured he’d been drunk and fallen in.

When she heard her precious son was dead, Grandma Maeve wailed like a banshee. Daddy just stood by her, a silent, stoic statue. Clara insisted on going to see. When they pulled his body out, she just stared, her face a blank mask. Mama held her. “It’s over now, baby girl,” she whispered. “That animal can’t hurt you anymore.”

But Clara’s eyes were locked on me. A strange, unnerving stare that made my skin crawl. “Clara? What is it?” I asked.

She didn’t answer. Just then, we heard the sirens.

Sheriff Brody arrived, his face grim. The scene was a mess. Half the town had come to gawk, trampling any evidence, leaving a carpet of sunflower seed shells and cigarette butts. A few of the braver men had left greasy handprints on the well’s edge when they’d peered in.

“Whose boot prints are these?” Brody demanded. “Don’t make me check every man in this town.”

“Mine, Sheriff,” a farmer drawled. “Went to take a piss this morning and nearly watered your crime scene.”

Brody held up a small scrap of floral fabric. “Anyone recognize this?”

Silence. Then one of the men chuckled. “Sheriff, half the women in this county got a pair of panties made from that cloth. You wanna start checkin’?”

The crowd roared with laughter. Brody’s face turned red. He started taking statements. When he asked if Ray had any enemies, I pushed my way to the front. I had to tell him what he’d done to Clara. But before I could speak, Grandma Maeve’s hand shot out and yanked my hair.

“Your uncle loved you more than anything!” she howled for the crowd. “Aren’t you gonna cry for him?”

Her grip tightened, and a sharp slap stung my cheek, bringing tears to my eyes. Sheriff Brody started walking toward me.

“Not. A. Word,” Grandma whispered fiercely in my ear. “You keep your mouth shut, I’ll fry you up some bacon when we get home. You say anything, I’ll skin you alive.”

Ray was dead. He couldn’t hurt Clara anymore. I nodded, turned to his bloated corpse, and started to sob.

Brody gave my grandma a hard look but moved on. No one in town liked Uncle Ray, but you don’t speak ill of the dead. He got nothing. A few weeks later, the official report came back: suicide. Grandma Maeve let out a long sigh of relief and had Daddy arrange the cremation immediately.