Catch a Falling Clown

11

It was difficult to enjoy the scenery on the trip back to Mirador. On my left, Alex drove slowly, savoring what he was going to do to me when he got me alone. He gave my leg a loving squeeze. My brother had done that once when we were kids, and I had never forgotten the pain. Alex was going Phil one pain better. Behind me sat a now satisfied Mark Nelson humming, “Side by Side.” At my right sat Agnes Sudds, who was more than angry with me for dragging her into this and accusing her of murder. I avoided Agnes for a while and tried to see Nelson’s face in the rearview mirror.

“Sit still,” warned Alex.

“My wrist hurts,” I said.

“Alex will soon take your mind off that discomfort,” said Nelson from the back seat. He had stopped singing “Side by Side” and had switched to the “Rickety Rickshaw Man.”

“Doesn’t bother you that I’m not the killer?” I said.

“Not a jot,” beamed Nelson. “The two victims, or one that I am sure of, were not citizens of Mirador. They are from the outside, and their killer, who I assume to be you, is also from outside our tranquil confines. When the circus goes tomorrow, the killer goes too, if you are not the killer. However, you are the killer.”

“You don’t even really think I am,” I said. “You just want this wrapped up.”

“Like a Baby Ruth candy bar,” he said.

“Why don’t you tell him again that I did it?” hissed Agnes like one of her snakes.

I was about to suggest just that when I looked at Agnes. I didn’t like the way she was smiling or the way she looked down toward her lap. I looked down at her lap too and saw Abdul curled there, gazing at me.

“Holy …” I said with nowhere to go but through the windshield. I couldn’t even do that without taking Agnes and Abdul with me.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Peters?” said Nelson.

“The snake,” I said calmly.

“Snake? What the hell are you jaw-flapping about? You hit the bottle this morning?”

“In her lap,” I whispered to Alex.

He looked toward her lap and saw the snake.

“Coral snake,” Agnes said sweetly. “You’ll be dead in seconds if Abdul strikes.”

“Listen, Agnes …” I began, looking from Alex’s suddenly white knuckles on the steering wheel to Agnes’ eyes of green fire.

“What is going on up there?” complained Nelson, holding his gun up. “Alex, watch the damn road, and you two be quiet.”

“What would I do now if I was the killer?” Agnes said between clenched teeth.

I had the insane vision of my high school English teacher, Miss Routt. We called her Rutt. She prodded me to tell Agnes that she should use the conditional tense. “If I were,” I said to myself.

“I’d let Abdul sink his clean little fangs into your dirty leg,” she said. “But I’m not the killer.”

“I think I believe you,” I said.

“We all believe you, lady,” said Alex emotionlessly. He was weaving back and forth on the road. Nelson said something like “What the hell” and leaned over into the front seat to see what was going on. He saw Abdul and let out a yell. His gun went off, turning the windshield milky white and full of threads before it crumpled inward. Alex lost control, and the car turned sharply to the right. Nelson tumbled into the front seat as Abdul went flying into the air. I saw a green streak go past my nose through the window. I think I was upside down at the time.

Colors were flying together like blood or oil in a pool of water. A noise of metal against metal against metal against me stopped or almost stopped. Something was still grinding slowly. The car engine was turning over.

Someone was on top of me. From the weight, I knew it was Alex. I pushed and pushed with my free left hand until something gave way, and Alex floated upward, which surprised me until I decided that the car and I were upside down. My foot was through the roof.

“Nelson,” I croaked, looking around, but I didn’t see him.

“He went through the front window,” said Agnes below me. We were still handcuffed together. “Abdul is out there too.”

“Are you hurt?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said, getting to her knees. “Is the deputy dead?”

Alex was breathing evenly, and his eyes were fluttering. He didn’t look great, but he didn’t look dead or near it.

“I think he’s just stunned,” I said. “How about pulling me down gently? My leg went through the roof.”

We worked at it for a few seconds, and I came tumbling down. Alex broke my fall and groaned.

“Come on,” I said to Agnes, opening the car door. It creaked and slumped open. She followed me out.

“It will be easier if we hold hands,” I suggested. “The cuffs won’t rub us raw.” I took her reluctant hand. It felt comforting. Maybe Nelson, if he was alive, would hesitate to shoot us if we simply stood holding hands in the road.

“Let’s look for Abdul,” Agnes whimpered. “The poor thing is out of his native environment and friendless.”

“You just described Tobias Leo Pevsner,” I said. “Me.”

We found Nelson sprawled on a grass embankment about ten feet from the car. The gun was gone, and he was sitting and holding his head.

“Alex,” he groaned. “Where the hell is my hat?” He looked up at us standing in the road, and blurry hatred appeared. “I am going to find my gun and blast a hole in two escapees,” he vowed. On his knees like a mad animal, he began to scramble around, searching for gun, hat, and, possibly, Abdul.

“I think we better get the hell out of here,” I told Agnes.

She looked at the frenzied Nelson and nodded in agreement.

“Nelson, we didn’t kill anybody,” I said, hurrying down the road, across it, and toward a clump of trees.

“Stop,” he shouted, postponing his search and getting to his wobbly legs. He took a step toward us and toppled over. My last look back showed me Alex crawling out of the wreck. We ran through bushes, trees, scrub, and stones. No bullets followed us. I wouldn’t have heard footsteps over my own heavy breathing even if they were there. We ran and ran. I prayed for Agnes of a Thousand Snakes to ask for a rest. That was the way it was supposed to go, but she wasn’t even breathing hard.

“OK.” I stopped. “That’s it. I need a rest. You win.”

“You should stay in good condition,” she said.

“I thought I was.” I looked back the way we had come, but there was no sound and no sight of pursuit. We had done some zigzagging, and now I was sagging. I staggered to a rock that looked like a buried brown egg and leaned against it.

“Congratulations,” I said. “I think you just introduced the coral snake to Southern California. He’ll be right at home.”

Agnes looked at me coldly. “Tell me something,” she said. “Why the hell am I running?”

“Easy,” I said, trying not to sound winded because she didn’t. “You’re handcuffed to me and I’m running. If we can get you loose, you can run right back to those two. They’re going to have some questions about Abdul, me, and a couple of murders.”

“I didn’t murder anybody,” she screamed.

After pleading with her to keep her voice down, I went over her story. Actually, she didn’t have a story, just answers to my questions, and they were pretty good answers, which meant I was getting confused. I was also getting worried. Alex or Nelson could come crashing through the trees, guns ablaze, any second.

“So what do we do?” Agnes asked reasonably. “Where do we go?”

“That way,” I nodded, “and then south. They expect us to head north up the coast toward Los Angeles. Nelson will probably look for us himself for a few hours and then call in the state police. He won’t want to call them in, but maybe he’ll have to. They already know he’s an idiot. Then I’ll have to think of something. Like who the hell the killer is.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” she said reasonably.

“Of course I do,” I said, pushing away from the rock, my right hand still clutching her left. “I’m wearing a jacket that doesn’t match my pants, holding the hand of a snake charmer in a sweat shirt, and running away from a sheriff who wants to blow my head off. How many people in the world can be that specific about what they’re doing?”

We went more slowly, but we didn’t stop until we came to a ridge. About fifty feet below us were jagged rocks, and just beyond them were the beach and ocean. There was no path, but there was enough brush to hold onto as we made our way down, which wasn’t very easy with one free hand each. Once Agnes slipped and let go of my hand. The cuffs cut into our wrists but kept her from going backwards while I clung to a rock. When we finally made it to the beach, we were both exhausted.

“Do you do things like this a lot?” she said.

“Not a lot, but it happens,” I admitted, looking out at the waves.

“Am I nuts, or do you look like you’re having a good time?”

“Maybe not exactly a good time,” I said, “but it beats sitting in the front room, reading the Times and watching the clock take your life away. I’m scared a lot, but I’m alive more than other people too.”

“Like snakes,” Agnes said sympathetically. “You know what they can do, and that’s why you want to be with them, show other people you can be that near death and like it.”

“Kindred spirits,” I said, helping her up.

She stood looking into my battered face with an amused smile. I kissed her nose.

“Your name really Sudds?” I asked as we started down the beach, walking on stones to keep from leaving prints.

“Would anyone make up a name like that?” she said. “It’s Sudds. In my act, I’m Helene of Nepal, whose parents were killed by bandits during an exploring trip of Tibet. I was brought up by snake worshippers and became their princess, but I found their sacrifices of travelers to the snake god repellent and escaped to a Jesuit missionary.”

“And people buy that?”

“No,” she admitted, “but they like to pretend they do or make fun of it. They mainly like to see someone doing something they wouldn’t dare do. That’s the story of the circus.”

We kept walking, did a little talking and a lot of thinking, but the thinking wasn’t getting me anywhere. If I went back to the circus with Agnes, it would probably be knee deep in state police by nightfall. If I went to Los Angeles, I’d have nothing to work with. I’d be picked up in a few hours. If I went to Mirador, I wouldn’t even get a chance to explain.

After an hour of walking, we came to a few houses and a pier. Not much of a pier, a concrete breaker worn away by the ocean. There was a path up from the beach and we took it, holding hands and hiding the cuffs under my baggy jacket sleeve. We were two ridiculously dressed lunatics in love if anyone saw us. If our description had gotten to this town already, there would be no denying it. Our disguise was only for the indifferent or uninformed. I had a few dollars in my wallet, not enough to buy our way out of this but enough for coffee and a few sinkers.

The houses, old adobe and cracking wood, came closer and closer together until we got to what passed for downtown. The smell of the ocean helped make the place seem more quaint than decaying. It certainly wasn’t full of activity.

A few signs in store windows let us know that we were in Quiggley, California. The grocery store and post office, which also had a soda fountain, displayed a sign that told us Quiggley was “The Fifth Leading Producer of Artichokes in Southern California.”

A few farm kids were sitting at the fountain drinking Green Rivers. They looked at us, poked each other, and made it clear that they were holding back giggles.

“Finish up and off you go,” said a woman behind the counter. She was gray from hair to smock and as thin as string. With a see-what-the-world-has-done-to-me little smile, she asked us what we wanted. I ordered coffee for both of us and some doughnuts.

“Got some fresh-made pecan rolls,” said the woman.

“Sounds fine,” I said, giving Agnes a loving look to account for our tightly held hands.

“Renting a place down by the beach?” the woman said, moving slowly to get our order.

“Right,” I said. “Just a few days. Place a few miles up the coast. We just strolled down to see what Quiggley was like.”

“And?” asked the woman, reaching to turn on the radio behind her next to a metal sign with a picture of a smiling girl holding up a Coke bottle to the sun.

“It’s nice,” said Agnes, looking around the store.

The place was old, cluttered, and full of the smell of moist wood. I liked it. The radio suddenly warmed up, and Dr. I.Q.’s voice came on with a question: “For ten silver dollars,” he said, filled with enthusiasm, “where is the Island of Kwato?”

“New Guinea,” said Agnes, trying to figure out a way of splitting her pecan roll with one hand. “There’s a little blue snake in Kwato that turns itself upside down to get its vemon out.”

“That a fact?” said the woman behind the counter. Agnes dipped the whole pecan roll in the coffee.

“The Caribbean,” said a woman on the radio, and Dr. I.Q. responded with his, “I’m awfully sorry. The Island of Kwato is part of New Guinea, but a box of Milky Ways to that lady.”

A couple of women came in to buy stamps, and I urged Agnes to hurry. She did, and I left half a buck on the counter. We didn’t wait for change.

“See you,” I said pleasantly as we walked around a display of Uneeda Biscuits for ten cents a box.

The gray woman and the stamp customers looked over at us, and I heard one of their voices say, “Strange, Walter says spies are …” Behind them, Dr. I.Q. started a tongue twister that began, “My mother’s monkey makes …”

“I’m still hungry,” said Agnes as we went down the street. We would soon be out of the town, and I had no plan, just some wild ideas that made no sense. In short, my usual state. A brown car pulled around a corner and headed toward us. There were a few cars on the main street of Quiggley which was, not surprisingly, called Main Street. This car, however, had a little light on the top.

We were standing near a lawn in front of a small wooden building marked RR Station. I didn’t know if it was still in use or what call Quiggley had for a railroad, but I pulled Agnes toward the door. It opened easily, and we stepped in. I looked back through the dingy window of the door to watch the police car go past.

Someone was in the station. I didn’t look. Instead, I walked to the blackboard I spotted at the corner of my eye, pulling Agnes with me. It told what trains were coming and going through Quiggley. There weren’t many. The next one out was to Phoenix at three in the morning.

“If anyone asks,” I whispered, “we’re going to Phoenix and we’ve already got our tickets.”

“And no luggage,” said Agnes. We sat on a wooden bench.

I looked down as if I were tired and saw blue linoleum squares with white flecks. The linoleum was scuffed and worn through to dirty wood in spots. The walls were covered with plaster put on in uneven layers and painted over gray-white like a strip mine.

There was a young man behind the ticket booth in the corner. From what I could see of him, he had a dark mustache and hair Wildrooted to submission. The black lettering on the pebbled glass above his booth had worn or been scratched away so that only “TI KE S” remained. The radiators were old, ornate, and painted black. A black-on-white sign above the door we had come through said, “No Loitering.” There were some gray steel lockers and a few windows painted over at the top in flecked black. The wooden benches were high-backed. The garbage can in the corner was full, as was the ashtray a few feet from us.

We weren’t the only customers waiting. An Oriental family shared the station and drew most of the looks of the ticket taker. The father and the pregnant mother looked young. She was lying on the bench with her eyes closed. The father, a thin man in a denim jacket, looked at us with a small apologetic smile. All four of the kids had runny noses. The oldest was about seven. The father clutched a small radio in his arms.

One of the kids walked over to Agnes and me. He was about six and carrying a crumpled Captain Marvel comic book. His black hair tumbled over his eyes.

“We’re Chinese,” he said, “not Japanese.”

“Great,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Miles,” he said and then whispered, “but my real name is Tetsuya.”

I wasn’t sure of my Oriental names, but I didn’t think Tetsuya was Chinese. What he was, was the product of his father and mother’s real fear. They were on the run and probably didn’t know where they were heading, as long as it was away from California and the camps where Japanese-Americans were being herded.

“My real name is Tobias,” I said, holding out my left hand. My right hand was otherwise occupied holding Agnes and hiding handcuffs.

Miles took my hand, shook it, and informed us that a nickel was stuck in the public telephone in the corner. His brothers and sister climbed the benches and gradually made their way to us. I wondered, while exchanging silly looks with them, what would happen when Agnes or I had to go to the rest room. At one point, Agnes glanced at the ladies’ room. I ignored her and my own bladder and played with the kids. The father looked worried, and I had the impression that the pregnant mother was only pretending to be asleep.

After an hour or so, two of the kids fell asleep. Miles went to the telephone with the remaining brother to work on the nickel, and I ignored Agnes and the eyes of the ticket taker by picking up a movie magazine. The magazine had the cover torn off, and I didn’t really want to know about the Stage Door Canteen shows, but I flipped the pages slowly, as if reading them. Agnes dozed, waiting for me to come up with an idea, and then the idea came up with me. It was on the page right in front of me.

“Son of a …” I began.

“What?” Agnes said droopily.

I stuffed the magazine in my pocket, pulled Agnes to her feet, and hurried to the door.

“Where are we going?” she said.

“I’ve got some answers and ideas,” I said. “Let’s go.” I waved left-handed to Miles and his brother and hurried Agnes out into the day.

“Back to Mirador,” I said. “I think I have some evidence for the state police.”

We didn’t want to go back to the gray lady’s grocery and post office, so we stopped at the town diner, where we caught a suspicious look or two, bought a few Whiz bars, and headed back to the beach.

“I need a bathroom,” Agnes said as I hurried her along away from the last touches of Quiggley civilization.

“So do I,” I said, “but …”

“Bushes, eyes closed,” she said. “Now.”

The rest of the walk, all two hours plus of it, gave me Agnes’ real life story. I didn’t listen to most of it, just nodded, smiled when it seemed right and kept on going, trying to make sense of what I knew. It was late in the afternoon when I recognized the stretch of beach where I had last seen the running elephant. Another two hundred yards and we were at the spot where I had found Rennata Tanucci’s body.

“What kind of place is this?” Agnes asked, looking around at the unfinished buildings.

“Ghost town,” I said. “Let’s get up there and get some help.”

We climbed the road and went to the first house on the ridge overlooking the beach. It was a two-story brown brick place in this, the classier part of town near the ocean. The grounds were well maintained, and the wall was low and matching brick. It would have a phone, and it might have a reasonable owner of some position in Mirador, someone who might mediate between Agnes and me and the law. The sun was setting on the horizon, and the first chill of February night roared by when I knocked at the oak door. There was a light on upstairs, so I knocked again. Then the footsteps came, heavy and slow, and the door opened.

There is good luck and bad luck and no luck at all. I never knew which would be there when a door opened. This time it opened on the double-faced Thomas Paul.

“Mr. Peters,” he said. “To what do I owe this surprise?”

There wasn’t much choice, and besides, I was pretty sure now who my murderer was, so I took the chance.

“Your sheriff is after us for murder,” I said.

“Yes, I know,” he said. “The young woman down on the beach. Won’t you come in?” He stepped back, and I led Agnes in behind me.

The hallway was dark, but the last of the sunlight was enough to see by as we followed Paul to the right and into a living room. The furniture was comfortable, soft and dark, and the walls were covered with paintings, circus paintings: clowns, jugglers, aerialists, elephants, even a band.

“I told you I wanted the circus in Mirador,” said Paul, watching my face. “I have deep feelings for the circus, deep feelings. And you, young lady, you are Helene, the charming snake charmer. I saw your act yesterday.”

“I saw you seeing my act yesterday,” said Agnes, sitting on a sofa and pulling me down with her.

Paul’s right hand went up to his face. “Yes,” he said, “I’m rather difficult to miss. Now, what can I do for you? As you know, I want to make relations with the circus as cordial as possible. I cannot, however, harbor killers.”

“Accused killer,” I said. “I know who the real killer is, and I can prove it.”

Paul looked at me with one side smiling and the other side of his face twisted in what looked like hatred. “Good,” he said. “I’d like this settled, and I don’t want any trouble. Can I get you something to eat and perhaps a file or saw?”

“Great, and get the state police here,” I said.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” replied Paul, walking out the door and closing it behind him. “I’ll take just a few minutes.”

“Up,” I said. She sighed, pouted, and got to her weary feet. We walked on the Persian carpet to the rear of the room, to a wide bay window that looked down at the beach. I could see the spot where Rennata had been killed and Nelson had found me over the body.

“Don’t you wonder why he closed the door behind him when he walked out?” I said.

“No,” she answered. “He said he’s getting the state cops and a file. That’s all I care about.”

“He didn’t say that. I asked him to do it, but he didn’t say he would. Come on.”

We went to the door of the living room, and I opened it. I could hear Paul’s voice at the back of the house through another closed door. We followed the sound, walking softly. The hallway was dark and the door thick. I could hear Paul’s voice behind it but not the words. So I pushed the door gently. It gave. I put my fingers on Agnes’ lips to keep her quiet and heard him say, “I’ll simply have to, that’s all. No, you call the sheriff. Tell him to get to my house quickly, that Peters is here threatening to kill me. When I hear the sheriff’s car pull up, I’ll shoot them and put a gun in Peters’ hand, a gun with a bullet recently fired. No, I’ll be careful. There’s still too much more to do.”

I closed the door and led Agnes back down the hall.

“That bastard is going to kill us,” she said aloud. I clamped my hands over her mouth and shook my head negatively. I got her back in the living room, told her to lean back and pretend to sleep, and I sat rubbing my eyes.

Paul, massive and now deadly, came back in the room carrying a huge plierlike black steel tool.

“This should do it,” he said. I held up my right hand and Agnes’ to reveal the handcuffs. His story to the police about having to kill us would go better if we seemed less hopeless and he more vulnerable.

Agnes looked up at him with more hatred than fear, and I gave her a look designed to keep her from giving anything away. Paul fit the pliers over a steel link and pressed down with both hands. His body shook under his gray suit, and then the link snapped, and Agnes and I came apart. We each still had a bracelet, but the sense of regaining our own separateness was a nice shock.

“The police will be here shortly,” he said. “I’ll get you a drink. Bourbon, beer, coffee, tea?” he asked as amiably as his face, body, and probable madness would allow.

“I don’t know about Agnes,” I said, rising with a stretch, “but I could use a washroom.”

“Me too,” agreed Agnes.

Paul looked at his watch and figured, as I hoped he would, that there was plenty of time for us to get to the washroom and back before the police came. It was either that or pull out the gun now and hold us, which had other risks, including a pair of victims who weren’t surprised and might cause some trouble at the very moment when they were supposed to be catching bullets between their teeth.

“Right down the hall near the kitchen,” he said. “I’d suggest you hurry. The state police are not far off, and they said they’d get here quickly.”

We thanked him and went into the hall. Next to the kitchen where we had overheard Paul’s phone call was the partially open door of the bathroom.

“You first,” I said to Agnes with a yawn and closed the door before she could step in. I looked back toward the living room, but Paul didn’t step out. Agnes followed me into the kitchen. The door to the outside was bolted. I pushed the bolt back slowly, turned the latch and opened the door. It made a little noise.

“Peters?” came Paul’s voice.

“Let’s run like hell,” I said, and held her hand as we stumbled across the lawn. We had just reached the low wall when the first shot came. It chunked into the wall, sending a spray of yellowish fragments in front of my eyes. Agnes scrambled over the wall with me behind, followed by a second shot that whizzed across the road. We crouched behind the wall and did an ape scramble across the road. We could hear Paul coming after us, and I hoped he would guess wrong and try to head us off toward the beach. When we hit the small road in front of the house, I glanced back and saw Paul leveling a small rifle at us.

I pulled Agnes down, and the third shot caught a piece of the heel of my right shoe. The closest cover was some tall grass a dozen feet away, and he was sure to get a shot off before we were up and moving. I squeezed Agnes’ hand, gave her my devil’s grin, and began to roll into the road. She did the same. It seemed like a good idea, but it almost got us killed by the car that sped out of Paul’s driveway and stopped inches from my head.

The car door opened, and an arm reached out to grab me and lift me like a teddy bear into the front seat. The arm went out again and pulled Agnes in as the fourth shot screamed through the car door and lodged in the seat near my shoulder.

“Jeremy,” I said. He drove away as a fifth wild shot went over the car.

“I was watching the house, watching Paul,” he explained, looking back in the rearview window. A car had stopped in front of Paul’s house. It was a small car, getting smaller in the mirror, but it was clearly Alex and Nelson, who got out of it and met the massive Paul, who pointed in our direction.

“You see?” I said.

Jeremy nodded and stepped on the gas. The car was Shelly’s Olds, and it proved to be reliable as always. Nelson and Alex might have caught us if they had had a little driving nerve, but that had probably been taken out of them earlier in the day by a snake and a crash. Neither of them wanted to risk nonsurvival in a second accident.

“Why not just leave me off at the side of the road?” said Agnes. “I like a little excitement, God knows, but this is going a little far.”

“Sorry, Agnes,” I explained, as Jeremy took a corner and sent me up against the door. “Paul knows we ran, knows we know he tried to kill us. If he spots you, he’ll pull the trigger and claim you had a gun, or he went mad, or who knows. No, let’s get back to the circus. I’m almost close enough to taste it.”

“The killer?” asked Jeremy. “But isn’t Paul the killer?”

“Nope,” I said, leaning back to rest. “He’s only half the tale.”

“There is little poetry in the world,” sighed Jeremy, turning another corner.

“We need what we can get,” I said with eyes closed.

“I too thought that not long ago,” he said. “But I no longer think it. This is a world of steamy woe, Toby. Poetry is necessary, yes, but for the poet, not the public. It took me this half a century on earth to understand that basic truth.”

We hit a bump, and Agnes squealed in the back seat. “I think the nights are too cold in California,” she whimpered, as the first chill of evening whistled through the bullet holes in the rear window.

“Yes,” agreed Jeremy, “too cold for poetry.”

“No,” she sighed, “too cold for Abdul.”

“You have a sick Arab brother, husband?” Jeremy said in sympathy.

“Snake,” I explained. “Abdul’s her snake. He got lost.”

“We each fight our own wars,” he said. “I have a snake poem which might comfort you. It’s in the spring issue of Southern Thought Magazine.”

Agnes didn’t pick up on the invitation. It was the least she could do for someone who had just saved her life, but then again, her life wouldn’t have needed saving if I hadn’t accused her of murder.

“I’d like to hear it, Jeremy,” I said.

Agnes came out of her grief for Abdul enough to pick up on the signal I was giving her. Jeremy probably picked it up too. He had known me longer than she had, but he wanted to do it, and as he said, it was more for the poet anyway.

I opened my eyes and looked at him. There was a calm smile on his face as he performed.

What once were legs are no more

in the cool perfection

of form that seeks no complication

and neither wishes to please nor score.

It kills without abuse,

consumes without excuse,

craves no company

and keeps its counsel close to the earth.

Hated for its distance and distaste

for the image of standing man,

the snake in his indifference becomes

the symbol of the beast who can

tempt us from the garden of ignorance

by his very example

of independence.

“Some snakes kill very violently, and a lot of them like company,” commented Agnes. “I mean, I like the poem …”

“It is not about the reality of snakes,” explained Jeremy patiently. “It is about man’s image of the creature, my image of the creature. The total number of subscribers to Southern Thought Magazine is no more than two hundred, and I doubt if any of the dozen or so who will read my poem are herpetologists. I don’t care about snakes. It’s metaphor I’m after.”

“Well,” said Agnes, “I don’t care about metaphors or Seventh-Day Adventists. I care about snakes.”

“A realist critic,” sighed Jeremy, with a sudden turn down the road to the circus.