"Hey," Delia addressed her impatiently, "you're finished, aren't you? Let's check the mail before we run out of time."
"Go ahead, am I stopping you?" Alma pretended to be peevish, but she smiled. "Remember the note we wrote Frank, and how we were too chicken to put it in his box?"
"Don't remind me." Delia rolled her eyes, as though the memory were long ago and utterly sophomoric. In fact, so many girls had written Frank notes that Mrs. Thompson-Warner had outlawed notes and announced that only stamped mail would be put into the mail slots for pickup. She said the girls were really much too busy to find time to write notes to each other, or to anyone else, and if they found a moment they might write to their parents, many of whom had scrimped and sacrificed to send their fortunate daughters to Camp Shelter.
"Fortunate daughters," Alma stage-whispered now. "Find a moment."
"Come on," Delia whispered back, "no one's around now to see if you got anything. And anyway, so what?"
Alma shrugged. Usually she refused to join the lines of girls formed across the broad porch every day; she often received no letters, and she allowed herself to check only if she happened to get out of lunch chores late. Then there was no waiting and no one but Delia to know. Who would write her? Certainly not Wes. Alma had never seen him write on anything but his business papers. She hoped for another box of chocolates and gum from Audrey, but didn't look forward to her letters. They weren't normal letters like Delia got from Aunt Bird or Mina. Audrey sometimes sent blank pages with pieces of grass or pressed flowers folded in them, or a poem she'd copied from somewhere. Her last "missive" had been some pages torn out of
National Geographic,
an article about Italy with pictures of mountains and a walled town. No message at all, no scrawled comment in the margins. Alma had stared at the images, intrigued, until she remembered one of Audrey's comments from last winter.
He speaks Italian beautifully, Alma. He says it's a language for shouting or whispering. He wants to go back there so badly, but Mina says it's an insane way to spend money and too far to travel with the kids. Can you imagine? How we'd love it, you and I.
Siena. It was the town where Nickel Campbell had lived in a villa before he was married, before he knew Mina. Where had Audrey gotten those pages? She must have gone to the library and found them. Is that how she spent her time, with no one home and the weather so hot? Quietly ripping pages out of library magazines? She'd included a stamped, addressed envelope so Alma could send the pages back, and Alma had, immediately, folding them up and sealing them in the minute she realized why her mother had sent them.
Now she let Delia link arms with her and propel them through the heavy screen door onto the broad porch of the hall. Even in shade afforded by the deep eaves, the heat of the day enveloped them. Alma sighed, peering across the quad while Delia checked through the C box. The grass seemed a yellower green by noon, dried out, and the dirt track bordering the woods appeared to waver. She let her gaze rein in and quickly peruse the wall of mail slots: there was Frank's name, the familiar picture of his hasty scrawl, and in the slot below was a single pink onionskin envelope. Lenny's stationery. Like Alma's, except Alma's was blue. Without even considering, Alma angled her body slightly and leaned against the mail slots. Watching Delia, she deftly slipped the thin envelope into her back pocket.
"I checked yours for you. See? You got two things." Delia looked up, distracted and triumphant, holding out the envelopes. "One of them is just from Aunt Bird. I can't even read her boring letters. But who sent you this?"
"I like Bird's letters. At least she tells us how Johnny is." Alma took the white legal-size envelope Bird always used for her notes about the weather and the shop. The other letter was stamped and addressed too, but again, Alma recognized Lenny's stationery, and her heart lurched gently. Lenny had sent her a note, and Frank too.
Delia held out the pale pink envelope. "Who's this from?"
"It's from Lenny."
"Lenny? Lenny wrote to you?"
"With a stamp and all, so they wouldn't confiscate it." Alma took the envelope and slipped her finger into the fold. It was barely glued down.
Delia stepped back. "What does she say? If it's secret, don't tell me."
Alma unfolded one thin sheet and read the words. The message was two printed lines, but it wasn't Lenny's writing. Alma stared.
"Well?"
"Here. Read it yourself. I guess it's to both of us."
They were alone on the big porch. Delia looked at the words, then read in a quizzical whisper: "'You and Delia sneak away from campfire tonight and meet us at Turtle Hole. Don't let anyone see you.'" She turned the paper over, then over again. "Lenny didn't sign it."
"It's not Lenny's handwriting, just Lenny's paper," Alma said. "It must be from Cap."
"Oh. Well, they probably share everything. More than us, even. I mean, they're older." Delia handed the letter back, looking noncommittal. "I guess it's important. They've never written us before. We could get away pretty easy. No one would miss us till after, in the cabin. Campfire goes on so long."
"Two hours, anyway."
It was true. The counselors couldn't notice exactly who was there; it was dark beyond the flames of the big fire, they were busy leading songs and chants, and all the girls were mixed together, crouching loud and faceless in their tangled circle.
"We could just go to the latrines, separately, and not come back." Delia looked interested. "Maybe we're going to drink beer or liquor and go swimming. I heard Cap drinks. Isn't that why your mom made Lenny stop sleeping over at the Briarleys'?"
"Where did you hear that?" Alma frowned, annoyed. In fact, it was the Briarleys who'd requested that Lenny not sleep over anymore, after they'd found an empty bottle in Cap's room, as though Lenny were the bad influence. "Gaither is awful," Alma said. "Everyone knows everything, except they get it all twisted."
Delia dropped her eyes and looked away, studying the quad.
Quickly, Alma took the other letter from her pocket and ripped them both once, twice, three times, crumpling the pieces. "I better tear this up. Maybe we'll sneak away, maybe not." She threw the paper into the big trash can by the door and stepped off the porch onto the broad steps. Delia was just ahead of her. They moved into the light, and the sun assaulted them full force.
It was the hottest time of day. The dining hall seemed to have shut its doors forever, and straggles of girls drifted toward the wooded paths to regroup for hiking after lunch. Already, most of them were swallowed by the big-leaved trees; Alma and Delia were last. They dragged their feet, growing later and later as the heat ate minutes away, absorbing time. Noon, and the sun was too bright to see, all alone in the blue sky like a fire.
"Walk faster, will you?" Alma stiffened one arm and put a hand flat against Delia's back. She could feel, in the exact shape of her palm, the weighty heat of a body. That's how it was: slow, the blouse damp to the touch, and a heartbeat measuring each step.
"We're already late," Delia said. "They're lining up by now and filling canteens. Pearlie is saying how we're the very last ones again. We'll say I got sick and you stayed with me. It'll work. I'm going to
be
sick in a minute." Delia stopped then and half turned, shading her eyes. "Look, where the path goes into the trees. Who's there?"
They saw two shapes, black against the sun where the ground rose. The little hill looked black as well, a curve before the trees began. There were two men, motionless, staring at the ground. One of them knelt.
"It's Frank," Delia whispered, her lips so close Alma felt the shape of the words against her ear. "It has to be."
Both girls drifted forward; the heat seemed to push them from behind. Alma felt her face nearly glow with some fire, but the tips of her fingers were cool, as though she'd touched some frozen, smoking cube. Dry ice, like in science class, ages ago. Yes, it was Frank; suddenly they were standing right beside him. He wore white cutoffs and a T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His hands were empty and Alma was inches from him. Her eyes followed his long legs to his tennis shoes, unlaced so the worn tongues flopped out. He seemed to have been dusted with phosphorescent color. His legs were downy with golden hair; his arms, dark beige, glistened with the same yellow sheen. He looked hard as stone, he was so lean, yet she saw the vulnerable swell of his biceps and thought there was something tender about him. A fierce bravery overcame her and she reached out and touched him, the gesture completed before she could stop herself. Her fingers grazed his upper arm, moved, testing, and stopped.
Beside her, Delia gasped. She moved as though to protect Alma, pull her back, but she was staring at the ground. The man kneeling there was a stranger, maybe one of the river workmen, shirtless, in sagging brown khaki pants. The ridged soles of his heavy boots were caked with dried bleached mud.
"It's a blacksnake," Frank said. "Can't hurt you."
Alma dropped her hand. He'd thought she was afraid! The distant, limitless trill of a locust rose and fell, a wilderness siren echoing a hidden shade in all this glaring daylight. Dimly, she wondered if she could faint now and not be here, her face was so hot and her hands so cold, and she peered into the depths of the ground at their feet. The ground moved and she saw the snake. The workman, his arms smeared with light swaths of dry yellow dirt, held the flat head of the snake in his fist. He held it carefully, like a weapon he respected, and something about him was like the snake. His black hair was wet and long, plastered to his head in ringlets, and he had a new beard. His face looked pared down, the broad cheekbones flaring under dark, almond-shaped eyes. His ears looked too small, they were so perfect, tight to his head, and he smelled. The odor of his sweat was pungent, faintly sweet, like the spoiled, smeared flowers of some unknown vegetable. Like snakes might smell, Alma thought. Beyond his big arm the black coil of the snake lengthened and swung, sidling along the ground as if the human grasp impeding it were of no consequence.
"Who are you?" Alma asked. But she was staring at the snake, the movement itself, the black, shifting coil that looked so mindful and graceful.
"He works down by the river," said Buddy.
His funny, piping voice rasped, almost as though he wasn't used to talking. He was suddenly there among them, had caught up and pushed among their elbows and got next to them. The top of his fair, bristly head against Alma's arm tickled like a brush.
The man nodded. "That's right, I lay pipe by the river." His voice was low and smooth, a singsong of even tone. His unshaven face was sun-dark, dark with close, tufted beard. In that shadow his mouth looked well defined, his lips pink, like they were lined with the kind of lipstick pencil Alma had seen Mina Campbell use. She'd : lean into the mirror by the front door and draw a line around her lips; when she filled in the space, Delia called it
painting up.
Now the stranger pursed his lips and sat up taller, on his knees, and gestured with the head of the snake, turning his fist as though to give the creature full view of Buddy's face. "I know you, boy," he said softly. "You know me?"
Buddy seemed not to hear. "I might not have got a rabbit yet but now I can get me a snake," he said, as though to himself.
The man stood, holding the snake tightly away. The length of the creature swung like animated rope, unfurled, and hung straight.
Frank spoke. "That's the biggest blacksnake I ever saw. Where'd you find it?"
Alma heard his voice with her head and with her chest, as though she vibrated when he talked. She eased closer in the tight knot of them all. Just by releasing her held breath she was bigger, took up more room. She brushed his body with hers, from her shoulder down her naked arm to her hip and thigh. She thought her clothes were just a shadow on her and she was breathing Frank's breath.
"It found me," said the man with the snake. "Come from the river." He looked at Alma, as if it were she who'd asked.
Delia was talking at Buddy, fast and nervous. Alma hadn't heard her until now. "Some snakes can swallow rabbits whole," she was saying, "and the rabbits are alive but they can't breathe in the snake—"
"Not around here, snakes don't swallow any rabbits," Buddy said.
"They do in Africa. I saw a movie at school. Didn't we, Alma?" She pulled at Alma's wrist, tugging hard. "Say so, will you?"
The workman began backing away from them, beckoning them farther into the shade of the trees. "Come here with me now," he said, "look at this." He dragged the snake along, its black length sliding through grass.
"No, we're supposed to be at the bridge for hiking." Delia looked up at Frank, emboldened. "Frank, you too."
He shrugged. "Go on ahead. I'll be there."
Now they were silent in their little knot, the circle broken. The workman moved back near them, around them, his gaze fixed on the snake. The long shape slid through grass with a sound like rope on silk, whispering. The whisper drew them on. Frank moved first, following the workman into the shade. "We'd better get someone," said Delia, but even as she spoke, she was drifting toward the towering oaks. Looking up, Alma thought the big leaves were the size of elephant's ears, flopping and heavy, concealing some intricacy. She felt Buddy pressed up against her, moving tight to her side.
The stranger waited, looking at them. He gestured impatiently. "Hush and come over here," he said. "Watch here." And he held the snake high as they moved in close, secret again in shade, where the air had even a different smell than sunlight. He held the snake higher. They saw then the outline of the eggs within the black hide and the rhythmic, internal working of the snake. It hung limp and straight in the grip of capture; its tail end eased an oblong cylinder onto the grass.
Alma crouched down to see. The egg was perfect. It looked smooth, opalescent. She half expected to hear a sound from inside, a hum or a blurred murmur.
"Don't touch it," came Delia's voice.