Daryl excuses himself the moment he’s done eating.Given the number of times he’s glanced at his watch, I’m guessing some kind of pressing engagement.Ballroom dancing?Booty call?Daryl isn’t one to volunteer such details.
Following Bart’s directions, I return to Petunia’s room.It takes me a moment to spy her tucked under a collection of leafy branches in a corner, one golden eye peering out.
“Um, wanna watch TV?”Then, as I genuinely consider the matter: “Do you have a favorite show?Wait, I’m being stupid.It’sThe Simpsons, isn’t it?Yeah, never mind, shoulda known.Okay, I don’t know you, you don’t know me, so I think we can both agree this is awkward.But your loving and devoted human seems to think we’re perfect for each other.So, um, I’m going to head to the family room.Assuming I can find it.Then I’ll turn on the TV.And then, well, suit yourself, okay?You show up, you show up.If not, no harm, no foul.I’ll still sleep well tonight.”
Petunia continues to regard me with one unblinking golden eye.
I sigh heavily, turn on my heel, and return to the kitchen, where Genni is harmonizing with the crickets as if they’re one big happy family/chorus group.I do my best to remember Daryl’s brief tour of the house and find myself in a yawning room dominated by aTV larger than most automobiles and positioned in front of a U-shaped sofa big enough to hold a football team.This must be the place.
On cue, my phone buzzes.Remote is on the charger on the table.Hit power button up top.
I nod, identify the black charger on the sofa table and then… Wait a minute, how did he know?Cameras.Has to be.Whiz kid gamer has his house wired.And is watching me right now, because he’s actually not stupid enough to trust a perfect stranger with the care and feeding of his pets.I look around, till I spy the lens tucked halfway up the stone fireplace.
I give it a little wave.Then stick out my tongue.
Nice,Bart texts me.
Little shit.With a sigh, I work the remote.The flat-screen TV graciously offers me a collection of favorite shows.Sure enough,The Simpsonstops the list.I hit play just in time for the distinctive sound of clicking claws and rustling tail.Petunia has entered the room.She scrabbles inelegantly across the tile floor, smooths out when she hits the tightly woven area rug.Which probably explains why there are so many carpet remnants around the place.
I take a seat.Stare at bright animated characters bouncing around a screen so huge baby Maggie is bigger than my entire head.
And then…
I glance at my phone.I wish for contact from someone I told not to contact me.I wish for time to move backward.I wish I didn’t still remember the smell of his skin, the feel of his arms, the whisper of his voice.“Do what you gotta do, Frankie.I would never want you to be anyone less than who you truly are.”
Because that’s what happens when you let someone in.Whenyou let them get to know youthatwell.They learn who you are.And they learn who you are not.
Even when you wish it were different.
More rustling.Petunia appears at the far end of the sofa, now perched on top of the arm.
She makes no move to advance.I make no move to draw closer.
Eventually, I sense a small shift in her posture as she settles in.
On the TV, Lisa Simpson plays her saxophone.
Petunia watches from one side of the couch, and I stare from the other.Two life-forms, alone together, which feels like the only way I know how to live anymore.
Later, she follows me back to her private room, where I lock her in for the night, per instructions.Then, because I just can’t help myself, I venture to the snake room, easing open the door, peering in the darkened interior.No immediate sign of movement, sounds of alarm.I pull on the headlamp with its night-friendly red beam.
I make out slender, twelve-inch baby pythons slithering along the sides of one enclosure, some sliding over others, some dotting the bottom in tight little balls.
On the farthest wall, pale yellow Marge is a stack of thick coils, her narrow head now lifting up from the pile.She stares at me expectantly, tongue forking.
Nothing but an illogical fear, Bart said.No problem conquering your greatest terror, he promised.
I replace the headlamp on the hook, then carefully shut and lock the door, testing the handle several times for certainty.
I bolt for the safety of the guesthouse.
I DON’T DREAMof snakes.At this stage of my life, my nightmares are much more specific.The first love of my life, holding his bleeding abdomen, a look of surprise on his face.Except then it’s some young man I barely know, and we’re in a back alley, his head on my lap as he gasps desperately for air, his dark gaze still angry, still defiant, still determined to live.
Until it isn’t.
Now I’m running through the rain with Bigfoot hot on my heels.Or maybe it’s a coconut crab with giant, snapping claws.I clamber up the steps of a darkened cabin, seeking shelter.Except there’s the severed head, with its sightless eyes and still-screaming mouth.
I don’t look away.I know this head too well.I know what will happen next, as I place my finger against those bloody lips and stare deep into milky-white eyes.
