Part V: Snakes – Snake #2 (Chapter 92)

Mother and Johnny live in Canoga Park, in a ranch style house, complete with white siding and a brick front.

I don’t know why this surprises me, but it does.

Maybe because this house is so unlike the dumps I remember from my childhood – the Hamilton Arms in particular.

Still, the monster German Shepherd barking and trying to push his snout through the picket fence in the backyard doesn’t surprise me at all.

Mother has always loved large, mean dogs.

Mother shows me to my room, a tiny room with an oversized closet, chest of drawers, a desk, and double bed. The room has just been painted a sky-blue, my second-favorite color – Prussian Blue being my favorite.

A “THUD!” from another room sends her scurrying away; she mutters under her breath.

Johnny brings my suitcases in and sets them on the floor. “There you go, Princess.”

Princess.

A shiver...

The ghost of Daddy Platts, just the way he looked that last time I saw him, a haggard man, trying to choke back tears.

Goodbye, Princess, I’ll write.

Of course, he never has, but that’s beside the point; there can be only one Daddy Platts....

“Call me Sam.” I try to sound casual. “That’s what everyone in Sioux City calls me.”

Johnny tries a half smile. “Sam. So it shall be,” he says, equally casual. “Well, then.” He brushes together his hands. “I’d best be getting back to the car lot.” And then he leaves.

I hope I haven’t hurt his feelings.

*

Mother shows me around. It’s a messy house, which doesn’t surprise me at all; kids’ toys lay strewn all over the living room floor, and dirty dishes are piled in the kitchen sink.

Georgie, the baby, sits among all the debris, apparently content with his own company.

He looks a little bit like Ruby; I resist the urge to pick him up and hug him close.

Does Mother ever think about Ruby?

Is she sorry about giving her away?

I want to say I think about Ruby all the time, that a rip exists in my heart that can never be fixed until I find her again.

Ruby would be 12 by now, living an idyllic life somewhere near Little Rock, Arkansas – or is it Hot Springs? – with Daddy Platts, in a white frame house similar to this one.

Ruby’s First Communion pictures arrived Special Delivery, a few months after that other Special Delivery letter. They showed a strawberry blonde child with her oval face cocked, her smile frozen, her large now-green eyes defiant and gleaming, her veil a nimbus around her head, her hands folded in prayer.

A few months later, the last bit of correspondence from Daddy’s sister arrived, bearing the news of Granny Platts’ death.

“I’ll be raising the child now,” the aunt said – and then nothing.

I’ve always wondered why Nana has never gone to Arkansas to check on my baby sister.

“Sorry about the mess,” Mother says as she grabs a Hamms from the refrigerator and opens it.

A chill.

“It’s hard keeping up with these kids.” She takes a swallow.

Johnny Junior runs around Mother in a circle, chanting, “Coffee! Coffee! Coffee! Coffee!”

Mother catches Junior by his collar and laughs.

His feet are still hitting the ground in a run, but he’s not going anywhere.

“You little goon,” she says, releasing him.

Without missing his stride, he runs around her, again chanting, “Coffee, coffee, coffee...

“Okay, sweetheart,” she says softly, setting the beer down on the countertop. She pulls a jar of Nescafé from the cupboard, and spoons four teaspoons of instant coffee and four teaspoons of sugar into a large Tommee Tippee mug.

Mother pours boiling water into the concoction, stirs, adds ice cubes and heavy cream, and caps it. She hands the mug to Junior.

Junior takes one look at the cup and hurls it against the refrigerator, syrupy liquid splattering all over.

“BABY CUP!” he screams.

Mother takes another swallow of beer. She picks up the Tommie Tippee cup from the floor and tosses it into the sink. She lights a Marlboro, closes her eyes, and takes a deep, long drag.

“I want big people cup!” he screams, stamping his feet in the tan puddles around the refrigerator.

Mother shakes her hair and sets down the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. “Okay, sweetheart.”

Okay, sweetheart?

I resist the urge to reach out, clasp my hands around that kid’s neck, and squeeze until his face turns blue.

Mother prepares the concoction again, this time pouring it into a ceramic mug.

“Spoon! I want spoon!” he screeches.

Mother drops in the spoon and stirs.

“Stir! I wanna stir! Gimme! Gimme! Gimme...!”

“You want to stir?”

“STIR! STIR! STIR! STIR! STIR!” Junior screams, reaching for the cup.

“Here you go, sweetie.”

Junior grabs the mug and runs for the living room, brew splattering all the way.

Mother calmly wipes off the refrigerator and mops up the floor. Finishing up, she says, “Well, that’s that.” She opens another beer, chugs about half in one swallow, and lights up a fresh cigarette. “Goddamn. I can’t understand why I’m so tired all the time.”

And then, a loud CLANG! from the living room, and Mother is off and running again.

Jesus!