Part V: Snakes – Snake #8 (Chapter 94)
We return to the party.
A new
person is sprawled out on a chaise lounge, an older man, long, lanky, deeply
tanned, and toned, with thick salt and pepper hair – a little on the wild side –
and a full matching beard. On his chest is a tattoo of a diamondback snake
coiling down a pole, its forked tongue lashing out.
The man wears a skimpy red and white swimming suit
which leaves very little to the imagination. But it’s those large blue eyes...a
little flip in my gut.
“Who’s that?” I ask the guys. By now, I can’t
decide whether I’m hungry or horny, but I do know I’m incredibly high, and I
like the looks of the guy on the chaise lounge.
He notices me, too, his eyes following as I walk
by.
Tom and Rob laugh. “That’s our dad,” Rob finally
says.
“Your dad?
You mean Monique’s husband?” I blurt out, loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Ex-husband,
honey,” the man says to me in a voice like Tom’s, only deeper with a hint of a
brogue. He offers his hand. “I’m Snake.”
I take his hand.
Hot and urgent.
He’s slow to let go. “And you?”
“Samantha.” I pull my hand back, look for burn
marks.
He sits up in the chair and plants his feet on the
ground. “You come alone?”
“Just with my mom,” I mumble, nodding in her
direction.
“You Rosie’s kid?”
I nod.
He laughs. “Jailbait.”
“Jailbait?”
“Dad, she’s from Iowa,” Rob offers.
“Honey,” Snake says, “jailbait means I should be
running from you lickety split.”
I flip a strand of hair. “Well, Mr. Lickety Split,
I’m an emancipated minor.”
But my heart pounds away in my chest; I don’t want
this man running away from me. Like Paulie.
He laughs again and strokes my neck. “I like you.
You look like you could use a drink.”
“I am
thirsty.”
“So, what’s your poison?”
“Hamms.”
He sings, “From the land of sky-blue waters...,”
and then jumps up from the chair. As he struts toward the cooler, his taut rear
end barely moves.
He returns with my beer and a double-something
straight up for himself. He motions for me to lie back on his chaise lounge,
which I do, and he sits at the foot.
“So, young bud of the Rose,” he says, “what’s your
sign?”
“My what?”
He laughs. “I forget you’re from the hinterlands.”
“Iowa.”
“Of course. Iowa. I’m talking about your
astrological sign, like Capricorn, Aquarius, blah, blah. So, what’s yours?”
“Libra. Columbus Day.”
“Ah, the scales. What year?”
“1950.”
Snake lets out a low whistle. “You are jailbait.” He strokes my foot, the
right arch. “So young.”
“I’m a woman now.”
“In nineteen-hundred-and-fifty-O, Samantha was
born of the famous Rose.”
“I like that. Most people just recite the same old
thing and think it’s cute.”
“I’m not like most people.”
He reminds me a little of Rhett Butler, except
that Rhett never wore skimpy swimming trunks. I keep going back to those red
and white swimming trunks...
“So, what’s your sign?”
Snake throws back his head and laughs. “You do
catch on fast. I’m a Pisces. March 17.”
“St. Patrick’s Day! Patrick your real name?”
“Oh, God, no. Anthony
Patrick. After my dad. But no one calls me that. Been Snake from day one. You
know the story of how St. Patrick chased all the snakes from Ireland?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m one he forgot! My father was an
American sailor, but I was born in County Cork. Lived there until I was seven.”
I laugh because I can believe how this man got his
nickname. “So, what year?”
A pause. “Let’s just say I’m older than you.”
“No fair! I told you!”
“You chose to tell me. I’m choosing not to tell you.” Snake turns away from me. “Looks like food is about to be served.” He takes my hand. “Come. Sit with me.”
