Page 14 of The Snake in the Grass: The Prequel

Or so I hoped.

But then we turned the corner, down Mayberry street that led to the little road where our house was, and my heart jumped up into my throat.

There were people on either side of the road, their boots muddy, hair tied back, tired expressions on their faces as they dragged ruined belongings out of their houses and dumped them near the curb. The destruction was inconsistent. One house would be mostly standing, a few shingles missing, water draining from the front porch, while another just next door was a pile of old timber and broken glass. Neighbors with less damage walked to houses that were gone to move broken beams and shattered dreams aside so they could find out what was underneath it all.

Children crying. Mothers sitting near the curb, heedless of the dirty ground beneath them, clutching the few precious things they still had, eyes hollow. Houses turned into little but basements; dogs trotting down the sidewalks, subdued. A group of neighbors heaving up a downed refrigerator to free a cat who’d picked the wrong hiding place.

“Wally.”

“I’m going as fast as I can.” His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “Can’t exactly mow these people down.”

The crowd in the road dispersed slowly. I wheeled down the passenger side window, stared out at them, feeling feverish and desperate. Spotting someone I knew, I called out, “Millie! Have you seen...?”

She shook her head, red hair dark at the crown from rainwater. “I haven’t been around the corner.” Lips pursed, she looked over her shoulder then back at me. “Maybe you’ll be one of the lucky ones.”

I thought of Daddy standing on a chair, screwing in a light bulb, pressing his fingers to Papa Edwin’s initials on a thick beam of wood holding the ceiling up above our heads. I prayed.

It felt like it took hours to turn the corner and park at the end of the driveway that led to the Wilder house, but it couldn’t have been more than a handful of minutes.

At first I didn’t recognize it.

Because there wasn’t a house there anymore at all.

The driveway led up to the porch, and then beyond that nothing but the remnants of the foundation. There was no big front door, no late ‘80s addition, no clapboard siding or dark grey roof. All of it was gone, not just destroyed but lifted away, from the beams Papa Edwin hammered together to the drywall he hung himself.

All that was left was the front of the porch and the two car garage, which was absurdly still intact. I had to blink at it a few times just to really make sure I was seeing it right.

Wally said something, but I didn’t hear him. As I opened the door and slipped out onto the ground, it occurred to me that the Wilder home was around the corner, nestled in the trees and set back from the road, separate from the rest of the neighborhood.

For all I knew I was the first person to check on them.

For all I knew my parents and my brother had been swept away along with the debris.

I stumbled up the front drive, heart beating a frantic rhythm, eyes searching vainly for a sign of them. And then: the garage door opened. Mom came storming out, her face uncharacteristically angry. Dad’s pickup truck backed out of the garage, then rolled to a stop right in front of me.

The driver’s side window rolled down. Leaning out, Daddy studied me and Wally, mouth tight. He nodded at me, once, as if he was acknowledging something.

Then he just said, “Move out of the way.”

I stumbled to the grass and watched him reverse the truck the rest of the way down the drive, switch gears, and pull out onto the road. He drove so fast that mud churned beneath his tires and sprayed to either side.

Bewildered, I didn’t know what to think. It felt like he was driving awaycompletely. Forever. Maybe he was; I still don’t know. I haven’t thought of him much since that moment. My heart is broken into too many pieces to devote one to his mad mood swings.

As soon as he was gone Mom strode down the driveway, feet bare, hair a reckless tangle. She threw her arms around me and held me tight; I tucked my chin into the soft place where her neck met her shoulder, taking in the smell of the storm’s destruction and her knockoff perfume in equal measure.

“I was so worried about you,” she murmured. “Thanks for taking care of her for us, Wally.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Pulling out of the hug, she swept my windblown hair from my eyes and asked, “Where’s Silas?”

I exchanged a frantic look with Wally. “He’s not back yet?”

She frowned. “I thought he was with you.”

“The Ranger station isn’t far away.” I calculated the distance in my head, the time we’d spent driving back from Wally’s house, and decided he should’ve been home long ago. “He has to be there. Doesn’t he?”

In answer, Wally pulled his radio out of the car, face grim. He turned the knob on the volume all the way up. He radioed into the station, then waited for a response.

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