Page 32 of Snake-Eater
That was one thing she’dalwayshad trouble with, ever since she was a child. Part of being “shy.”
“If you name a thing,” said Father Aguirre, sounding as if he were picking his words out carefully, “you have a handle to hold it by. You can put Blue Horned Toad House under your ... ah ...protection. It’s harder to do that with 145-A South Lane, or ‘the second adobe on the left.’ The one is a set of coordinates, butBlue Horned Toad Houseis an entity in its own right. Does that make any sense?”
It did, in an odd fashion. Except ...
“Protection?”
Father Aguirre pulled his ankle up onto his knee and fussed with one of his socks. He had surprisingly small feet. “Everything needs to be protected sometimes. And people change a house’s name occasionally, when they feel it no longer describes the house properly. Or the occupants properly, I suppose.” He tapped a nail against the sole of his shoe. “Jackrabbit Hole House used to be called Sunflower House. Your aunt changed it about five years ago. The funny thing is that jackrabbits don’t live in holes.”
“They don’t?”
“No, they live in little scrapes. I always wondered why she chose that name.”
Selena had no idea how to respond to that. She studied the saguaro again, wondering how you learned a cactus’s name. Did it tell you? Was it written along the length, in a braille made of spines?
If it was written there, she couldn’t read it. The only writing was on the wooden cross. She hadn’t noticed before, perhaps because of the angle. She rose and went to it, touching the letters. They had been carved in the crosspiece, in short sharp strokes, like runes.
Where is she?
“What does this mean?” she asked.
“Hmm?” Father Aguirre joined her. “What does ... oh. Hmm.” She could hear the frown in his voice, though she was looking at the cross. “Now that’s odd. I didn’t write that. Someone else must have come up here and carved it.”
“It seems like an odd thing to write.”
“Well.” The priest made a small sound that was somewhat less than a laugh. “Sometimes people write odd things on tombstones. Or perhaps they meant something else, and ran out of space.”
“A friend of my aunt?”
He shrugged helplessly. “I fear that I have no idea. Though Amelia had many friends.”
Selena nodded. Grandma Billy had said something similar about strays. Perhaps one of those strays had carved the words.
Grandma Billy had also said that not all Amelia’s friends were human, and that Father Aguirre’s mother was a god. Selena could think of absolutely no way to bring that up organically in conversation.
“I wanted to thank you,” Father Aguirre said, startling her. “My mind’s been easier since you’ve been here.”
“What? Why?” Selena blinked at him. “All I’ve done is eat your food and let my dog pee on your bushes.”
The priest laughed. “I’d forgotten about that. No, it’s Grandma Billy. She’s pretty old, even though she doesn’t believe it.” His smilefaded. “I’ve been worried about her, out there on the edge of the desert. What if she fell down? I’d sort of resigned myself to going out to visit someday and finding her gone, and then wondering if I could have done something if I’d gotten there sooner.” The smile that returned was rueful, and he didn’t meet Selena’s eyes. “So it’s entirely selfish of me, but I’m relieved she has a neighbor again.”
It was much like what Jenny had said, and again, telling himI’m not going to stay longdidn’t feel right at all. Selena studied the tall saguaro instead. Two of its arms were still small round blobs sticking out from the trunk. “Grandma Billy seems so alive,” she said finally. “It’s hard to think of her as old.”
“I know. I’ve always hoped that when it happens, it’s very fast. She’d hate a long decline.”
That led to a question she hadn’t felt right asking before. “My aunt ... how did she ...?”
Father Aguirre sighed. “That was, unfortunately, a rather long decline. She was always a very vital woman, always hiking and traveling into the desert. But she slowed down, and at first it just seemed like she was feeling her age, and then it was obviously something more. The doctor said chronic fatigue syndrome, but he admitted that was just a label for ‘you’re tired but we don’t know why.’ It was as if her energy was being drained away by—by something. She went to the hospital, and for a little while, we thought she might be making a recovery. But then she came home, and ... well.” He gazed at the saguaro but didn’t seem to see it. “It seems she only came home to die.”
Selena stared at her hands. “If I’d just arrived sooner ...”
Father Aguirre reached over and took her hand. His palms were warm and dry. “She could have written you, if she wanted you to come. She chose not to. Amelia would not want anyone to remember her as a weary old woman.”
“But maybe I could have ... I don’t know ...” She trailed off helplessly.
“When I was in seminary,” Father Aguirre said, after a moment, “I would beat myself up constantly. If anything bad happened to anyone I knew, I would ask why I hadn’t been there to stop it. If I’d paid attention, or been present, or even just prayed harder, surely I could have done something. Finally one of my teachers took me aside and said, ‘Manuel, you are not God. You aren’t omnipotent. Wanting to help is good, but this belief that you, personally, have so much power to affect the universe is starting to border on personal idolatry.’” He snorted. “He wasn’t wrong.”
“Did that help?” Selena asked.
