In retrospect, I never should have put that snake in Annemarie Kitsap’s mailbox. It wasn’t like it was a rattler or cottonmouth. Nothing that would jump out and fang you. Just a big bull. Ferocious-looking, but harmless. Prized in these parts for their propensity to devour rodents and truly dangerous reptiles.
In my defense, I meant no harm. Regard it as a romantic gesture; the clumsy flirtation of a love-struck kid. Truth is, I always adored the girl. Even before she inspired that warm tingling down south, I’d stare at her all googley-eyed, captivated by the curly red hair that shot out her head like a forest fire; skin too white and pure to sprout from this hot county; porcelain features so sharp she appeared otherworldly, like a beautiful gift from aliens.
From birth, Annemarie was a force of nature, attacking life as if it owed her more than the rest of us. By the time she was four or five, adults were actually afraid of her. Instead of cooing about what a pretty child she was—and there’s no doubt she was the most beautiful little thing anyone had ever seen—they’d circle as if approaching a foamy-gummed Rottweiler. Annemarie cared less, so self-assured she didn’t require hugs or affection. At Sunday Services, when a visiting pastor said, “My, what a stunning young lady,” Annemarie looked at him as if he’d just passed gas in an elevator, muttering “Tell me something I don’t know, Jesus-man.”
Our spread bordered the Kitsap’s farm, and since Annemarie and I were only a year apart, our folks threw us together whenever they were feeling neighborly. Annemarie regarded me with the disdain of an angry older sister, acting as if my mere existence was God’s plan to annoy her, but I happily accepted her eye-rolling and sucker punches, thrilled to be in her sphere, her insults and outright cruelty just fueling my love. A happy cuckold by age four.
I was Jane Goodall, and Annemarie my rare primate, as I observed every aspect of her progression. I marveled as her rail-thin, little-girl body retracted and expanded in all the right places, her farmer jeans abandoned for a tight denim uniform that served as inspiration for me as I trailed her down school hallways. Sometimes I’d sneak through the soybean fields that separated our farms, and climb into the sweetgum tree that afforded a view of her bedroom, transfixed by the Annemarie bedtime ballet, straining young eyes to catch the entire performance. The delicate way she removed her clothes, to be replaced with one of four t-shirts I knew by heart. My favorite; her Dad’s old white wife beater, barely covering those hopeful breasts. Her hair-brushing ritual; red silk freed to drape soft shoulders. Finally, she’d prop herself up in bed for twenty minutes to read before the room went dark, and I’d rush to the library the next day to find whatever was of interest to her, on the remote chance she wanted to engage in a literary discussion.
I could write a bestselling book called “The Wonderful Taste and Aroma of Annemarie,” detailing decades of covertly inhaling her strange and delectable scents. Johnson’s Baby Shampoo wafting off those Shirley Temple locks when we were toddlers. The tang of cinnamon from the wad of gum she’d sometimes rip from her beautiful mouth and shove into mine, seemingly with malice, but an act that gave me indescribable pleasure. The sour, sensual aroma of her armpits, when she’d roughly throw me into a headlock to deliver an Indian-rub. When I was nine, she tackled me behind the barn after her folk’s anniversary party, pulled up her gingham dress, and peed all over my head; an act meant to humiliate, but to this day one of the greatest experiences of my life.
Annemarie’s perfume evolution: her mother’s eau du-something in grade school; the sweet trace of Charlie that defined her junior high years; the Spice Girls Body Spray in high school; and finally Dior J’Adore, the signature spoor of a more adult Annemarie. Throughout this progression, I was her constant secret Santa, saving-up my scant allowance to leave gifts by her locker.
But my devotion and attentiveness seemed lost on her. I knew someday she’d understand our inevitableness, but teen years are difficult. As we aged, Annemarie’s attitude towards me morphed from disdain into outright hostility. I remember her yelling, “Get away from me, you goddamn freak,” during sophomore year, when I took my usual seat on the bus behind her, a spot chosen to afford the perfect vision of her elegant ears. After that, when she saw me, her face would screw with hate, and she’d extend a hand as if to shield herself, which devastated me more than you can imagine. At one point she inserted family into our relationship. One day when I returned from school my folks were waiting for me. “Annemarie’s parents complained. Leave that girl alone,” Dad ordered.
But of course, that was impossible. And ridiculous. I looked forward to the day when the Kitsap’s were family, and we could all have a laugh around the dinner table over Dad’s silly order. I knew our fates were intertwined, but could understand how others might have difficulty comprehending the relationship.
What I really needed to do was regain her attention, which wasn’t easy. There were so many distractions in Annemarie’s world. A girl so beautiful and brilliant is assaulted on multiple fronts by people that can’t help but desire her. And that’s when I came up with the snake idea.
As little kids we played together in Felt Creek, capturing tiny water snakes and transporting them to a bigger pool to watch them wriggle to freedom, sometimes even racing them like slimy racehorses. Though Annemarie didn’t share my complete fascination with all things reptile, I admired the fact that, unlike every other female I’d ever met, she was fearless about creepy-crawlers.
And so, putting the big bull in her mailbox was just a playful love pat; a reminder of good times we’d experienced together. Yes, a bit of a jolt, (and perhaps in back of my mind I was enacting a little revenge) but it was the kind of thing I was sure she’d appreciate. I was prepared—even wildly anticipating—retribution. I stuffed the snake into the oversized receptacle, and retreated behind a tree across the road to see her reaction.
But I’d forgotten that Annemarie’s old grandmother was visiting from Sevierville, and watched in horror as the old bat hobbled out to check the mail, probably hoping to discover her Social Security check, or perhaps an advertisement for a Hoveround power chair. Annemarie was always the one to retrieve the letters, and it never occurred to me someone else would open the box. I wasn’t in position to see the old lady’s face, but as she flipped-open the door I heard her scream, “Lordy,” (that’s an old folk curse around here), then she stumbled hard, falling flat on her back. The snake was as surprised as she was, probably half-insane with fear in the hot metal jail, and it sprung out, landing flat across Grandma’s legs. As the old gal raised her head the bull crept up her stomach, and slithered across her face to escape.
I’d heard the term, “stroked-out,” but had never witnessed it. The closest I’d seen was in seventh grade, when Marty Goebel had an epileptic seizure. He was at the chalk board, stressed-out when Mrs. Geller tried to get him to conjugate a verb, and suddenly he’s on the ground, shaking like someone hooked jumper cables to his nuts, and frothing something fierce. Grandma’s mouth stayed dry, but she vibrated in place just like Marty.
Annemarie was thirty feet behind her, and dashed forward when she heard the scream. She watched the snake slide over the old woman’s body, and saw me turn and dash into the forest, terrified that my practical joke had put an old woman in her grave.
Some good news. Grandma lived, so I’m not a murderer, although her face is frozen in a crooked scream. She also lost the ability to speak, though she did develop a grunt-based language that her family understands. From what I remember, she wasn’t a big talker anyway.
But the episode left me quite unpopular with the entire Kitsap family. Within an hour the Sheriff was knocking at our door, and I had trouble coming up with an answer when Daddy asked, “Why in the hell would you put a snake in someone’s mailbox? What in God’s name is wrong with you?”
“Annemarie,” I wanted to scream. “Annemarie is what’s wrong with me.” But I knew he wouldn’t understand. Nobody could.
My folks and I had to appear before a judge, and I was fearful that I might be sent to the boy’s prison in Dandridge. I’d heard horrible things about what went on in that place. My mother always described me as having “fine features,” which I knew in prison was synonymous with “hello little bitch, come give your daddy a kiss” so I wasn’t looking forward to incarceration. Luckily, my attorney managed to convince everyone that a strict boarding school would be a better option, and it was decided that I’d travel four hundred miles to attend Fork Union Military Academy, with the stipulation I never return home until I was at least eighteen, and that I maintain a hundred yards between myself and any Kitsap for the rest of my life.
Can you imagine never being able to get within a hundred yards of Annemarie? I call that cruel and unusual punishment.
After the proceedings Mr. Kitsap jabbed his dirty farmer’s finger at me and said, “If I ever see you on my property I’ll shoot you down like a dog with rabies.” I figured he was just trying to impress Annemarie with his best Atticus Finch impression, but made note that I needed to avoid their farm when he was around.
Annemarie’s attitude was more distressing. I’d hoped that she might see this for what it was; a misguided attempt to gain her love. Instead, I’d inspired a new level of hatred. As we walked out of the judge’s chambers she slid a hand to the back of my neck, pulled me close, and whispered, “I’m going to kill you. Not right now. Maybe not this month or this year, but I will kill you.” And she dug those beautiful nails into my neck till blood ran down the back of my shirt. It was terrifying, and for some reason I felt myself grow hard.
Fork Union Military Academy beats prison, but not by much. It’s a place constructed on rules—which runs counter to my personality—and I hated the silly uniforms. It made you feel as if they were planning to refight the Civil War, and we were the first line of defense. I wasn’t raped, though there were a lot of disgusting consensual sins committed in the woods surrounding the place. On holidays my family would come see me, since I couldn’t go home. It made my Mom cry when we had to spend Christmas in the Fork Union Days Inn, and when I’d politely inquire about Annemarie, she’d get this hopeless look on her face, her tears flowing even harder. But I couldn’t stop myself from asking.
They offered to come get me when I graduated, but I told them I’d take the bus. I didn’t mention my little detour. I’d heard from my sister that Annemarie was a freshman at Austin Peay State in Clarksville. It had been over three years since I’d seen the girl, and I was hopeful that by now our issues would be forgotten, replaced by mutual yearning. I was excited to let her know I’d be attending Austin Peay in the fall, even prepared to suggest we could share an apartment.
I hadn’t anticipated the difficulty I’d have finding her. I thought I could just wander around campus, our reunion appearing happenstance. Wow, Annemarie, how are you? I didn’t know you went to school here. I’m just checking out the place since I’ll be coming here in the fall. Sure. I’d love to have lunch. Stay in your dorm tonight? Yeah, that would be great, as I’d just planned to grab a cheap motel.
But there were almost ten thousand students, so I needed to do some detective work to find her. I knew she was an English major, so I chose a discreet spot in front of the liberal arts building, knowing sooner or later she’d come by. Sure enough, at around 3 p.m. I saw her exiting a side door.
“Well, look who the cat dragged in,” I yelled in my most energetic and mature voice, though to this day I’ve no idea why I picked such a hackneyed greeting, like something you’d hear from an eighty-year-old-geezer surprising a war buddy at a Rotary luncheon. Nervous, I guess.
Annemarie was walking with two friends, those adorable lips in mid-giggle, when she saw me. Her reaction wasn’t as I’d hoped, her eyes flashing from fright to rage. “What are you doing here?” she screamed. “You stay the fuck away from me, you creep. I will call the police. You’re not allowed anywhere near me.” She and the other girls turned and headed towards a back parking lot. I didn’t want to cause a scene, so I casually followed at a safe distance. They jumped into an old Tercel, Annemarie driving, and I made note of the license as they sped away.
Of course, this was a major set-back to my plans. It was obvious that Annemarie still harbored resentment, and I needed to take action to get our relationship back on track. I’ll admit that my solution wasn’t ideal, but when is an eighteen-year-old in love ever rational?
That evening I hiked to a swampy field outside of town, and gathered up all kinds of snakes in a pillowcase I’d borrowed from The Motel 6. Nothing dangerous, but a collection that would impress the most seasoned herpetologist: a thick corn snake, several bright water snakes, even an eastern hog-nosed snake. The next afternoon I was back on campus. It only took me a few minutes to locate Annemarie’s car, which I was pleased to discover she hadn’t locked, probably because there was absolutely no reason for anyone to break into the thing. I did find a gym bag stuffed behind the driver’s seat, and paused to zip it open and inhale my love’s tart aroma. My plan was to release the snakes in the car, which might jolt Annemarie out of her angry funk, and return her to better times. I was leaning across to the passenger seat, just about to dump the bag, when I heard her voice.
“I told you I was going to kill you,” Annemarie said, her voice surprisingly calm, considering what she was about to do. I’ve always assumed I’d be very tense right before I shot someone. When I saw the gun, I lunged away, but was hard to miss from three feet, trapped within the confines of that little car. The first bullet, which was probably aimed at my head, caught me in the right shoulder. The second was much more lethal, coming in right below my belt buckle, tearing-up my insides.
And that was the last time I ever saw my beautiful Annemarie. She pushed her head into the car, as I lay splayed across two seats, snakes slithering in the blood that was pooling on the passenger floor. “I told you,” she said one more time, assuming she’d killed me.
But that’s ancient history, though certainly the defining moment in my life. The little .32 caliber bullet is still lodged a fraction of a millimeter from my spine, governing my existence. The doctors say it can’t be removed, and warn me that someday it’ll likely shift and kill me. But dying might not be so bad, since living as a paraplegic doesn’t have a lot going for it. They moved me back to my parent’s farm, confined to my damn bed, with an occasional foray in a heavy metal chair. Dad died five years ago, so mom has to attend to me, cleaning-up my piss and shit, just like when I was an infant. The cheerful soul I remember has morphed into a sad old woman that cries every night before she dozes off. I know, because I require very little sleep. I lay here, late at night, listening to my mother’s agony.
And later, when it’s painfully quiet, I concentrate hard, and sometimes I’m sure I hear Annemarie, a quarter mile away, home for a visit, getting ready for bed. Annemarie pulling on that t-shirt, thumbing through the books on her shelf. And later, as she reaches to turn off the light, I sense that she’s thinking of me, regretting all the tragedy that’s come between us. Right before she dozes off, I can hear her mouth a sweet, “good night, my love,” as she pulls the covers to her chin.
(We couldn’t be more amped in welcoming back author Tim O’Leary. This short story is included in his most recently released collection, Men Behaving Badly. Come on, homies, support the literary arts and get ya a copy. And don’t forget his first collection, Dick Cheney Shot Me in the Face )
Things Men Carry 