It was such a great song that I leaned over the hole, smiling, and began singing for Classique, the words echoing in the blackness. I pretended that all the nearby mesquites were an audience of old men and old women. They were applauding; their craggy twig-fingers wore diamond rings and gold bands.
I finished with, "Thank you, everyone, everyone everywhere," and stroked the boa like it was a cat sitting on my shoulders.
And when the applause finally died in my mind, I listened for Classique’s faint message. She was supposed to say, "Fantastic! You’re wonderful! Mr. Dragon Branch is the bestest song ever!”
But she didn’t say anything.
"Classique,” I said, "are you still there?”
No message arrived.
I waited.
"Classique-?"
Nothing.
I stuck the branch into the hole. Down down down. Three feet, at least. My hand and wrist slid past the rim. And suddenly the branch stabbed the bottorn -- crunching against soil, perhaps poking clods and pebbles -- and broke apart. Then it was as if the earth caved in, the hole became deeper.
"Uh-oh,” I said, sounding like Dickens.
I couldn’t poke the bottom anymore, just space. So I opened my hand, letting what remained of the branch drop.
"He’s coming!" I warned Classique.
l\/Ir. Dragon Branch was falling toward her now. He’ll bite her head, he’ll bite her head.
Then I sat with my legs crossed and contemplated the hole. Classique hadn’t tumbled as far as I thought. If I had grown-up arms, I could reach in there and probably touch her with my fingertips. And I wouldn’t be afraid of the darkness inside -- the hole wouldn’t look so huge.
"Uh-oh," I said again.
I imagined Dickens hugging himself with those skinny arms, his hands almost meeting at his spine. He could rescue her in a heartbeat. His arms were like broom handles. He didn’t need a rake, he could comb the yard with his fingers. He wouldn’t even have to bend much.
"Classique, I’ll be back.”
I had an idea.
"Don’t go anywhere.”
Dickens didn’t need the rake. But I did. And the rake wouldn’t crumble; its claws could go into the hole -- snagging Classique and bits of the branch and clods and pebbles -- and come out again in one piece.
The Rake of Life, I thought -- wandering along the footpath, sneakers stepping over stones. Making my way to the edge of Dell’s front yard, I glanced around cautiously. Dell might be hiding nearby, lurking behind a grizzled trunk; she’d suck my blood if I wasn’t careful.
"You’ll stay far," I said.
I turned and spit.
"You’ll mess elsewhere."
Crouching at the juniper bush, I scanned the yard, the walkway, the porch. The yellow light glowed above the front door. But the Rake of Life was gone. And everything was silent. No whistling, no mumbling. The house seemed deserted -- shades pulled, dim -- like Dell and Dickens had packed their bags and went on vacation. Or they were napping. Or exploring the ocean in Lisa.
I left the bush and crossed the yard, leaving prints where Dickens had raked. And I crept alongside the house, going to the backyard -- my ears listening for anything, a whisper, a voice, floorboards creaking.
It was another world, the backyard; it wasn’t tidy like the front. Weeds and foxtails grew high. A blue Ford pickup was parked near the house, a crack zigzagging across the windshield. Further off stood a storage shed without windows -- all corrugated iron, even the walls and door -- and beside it, netted with chicken wire, were two wooden hutches.
But where was the Rake of Life? There was nothing else on my mind.
As I headed for the shed, a blast erupted somewhere in the mesquites -- in the distance -- breaking the silence, startling me for a second. A second blast. A third. Not the same booms as from the quarry. Different, less thunderous. These blasts weren’t as scary.
I followed a beaten trail -- the weeds no doubt matted by Dell’s boots -- and peered into the brambles, squinting, looking for the rake. But the overgrowth was too dense. I couldn’t see the ground.
Where’d they put you? Maybe in here, maybe-
I rattled the padlock on the shed door, but it was fastened. A strong odor lingered about the place, distinctive, turpentine or nail polish remover. My eyes burned some. And I couldn’t tell if the rake was inside. I tried peeking through a thin gap between the door and its frame. Impossible. The shed was as dark as the hole.
The search had been a complete failure, so I uttered my father’s favorite curse: "Shit fuck fire!”
I kicked the shed door.
Things and people kept disappearing. Classique. The bottom of the hole. Dell and Dickens. The rake. Even the hutches were bare, except for stained newspaper and chunks of white fur and pellet-sized turds.
"Shit fuck fire!”
There was no escaping it; I had_ to return to the hole empty-handed. And that’s what I did, with pouting lips, swinging my arms limply, punting stones from the footpath - the vision of defeat.
What’s worse, I couldn’t remember my song. I slumped in front of the hole and tried singing it.
"Dragon Branch coming -- Mr. Dragon Branch -- he’ll bite her head-”
But the words weren't correct, neither was the rhythm.
"-Mr. Dragon Branch coming -- coming coming-"
It was useless, so I quit trying and slapped my forehead. And that’s when I heard the boy say, "-hell, I don’t know, Luke. You were there first."
And another boy said, "I know, I know.”
They were half-laughing, talking loud, getting closer. Then I saw them. They strolled right by me and the mesquite tree and the hole, going leisurely on the footpath toward Dell’s house. But they didn’t notice me. They were too busy chatting and staring forward. One had black jeans, one had blue jeans. Both carried bolt-action rifles. And they seemed like wild boys, twins or brothers -- baseball caps pulled low, tanned necks, pants tucked into muddy boots -- tank tops hanging loosely, showing whiter than white skin beneath the neckline.
Black Jeans’ rifle barrel was propped on a shoulder. Two dead rabbits hung from his belt; their hind paws bound with wire. And Blue Jeans was chewing something, gum maybe, or tobacco; he held his rifle at his hip, the barrel pointing downward.
"Hey, you sure we ain’t lost, Luke?” Blue Jeans was saying.
"Positive. This’ll take us to the road. I’rn positive.”
I went to the footpath and watched them go. The backsides of their britches were green with grass stains. Black Jeans tugged at his rear as if his butt itched, as if his underwear had bunched in his crack. Then I pursued them for a while -- a glamorous spy with a boa, keeping a safe distance, eventually concealing myself among trees. They were nearing Dell’s house, chattering like squirrels, making a racket.
Better be quiet, I thought. You’ll get your blood sucked.
And no sooner had it crossed my mind when Dell appeared.
"Vandals,” she screamed. "Yes, yes, stay put!"
She sprang from the woods, scrambling onto the footpath -- her housedress flapping, the hood and helmet askew. And both boys started. And if Dell wasn’t holding a smoothbore shotgun -- aiming the lengthy barrel, swinging it back and forth, from one boy to the other -- they might’ve bolted. But they didn’t. They didn’t move an inch.
"Criminals and filth," she shrieked. "Do you know where you are, trespassers?”
"No, no, we was going to the road, to Keeler’s place," Black Jeans began suddenly. "We was takin’ a shortcut.”
"Liar!” Dell yelled. "What kin are you of Willy Keeler? None, I think!"
She thrust the barrel like it was a pitchfork, piercing the air between herself and the boys.