Prodigal Summer - Barbara Kingsolver [41]
“Mr. Walker,” she said, “you haven’t had any stroke.”
“What?”
“You haven’t gotten a stroke. You’ve gotten a turtle.”
“What?” He struggled to sit up. Suddenly his chest felt better and his head was perfectly clear.
“Look! You’ve got a snapping turtle hanging on to the side of your boot. I’ll bet that thing weighs fifteen pounds.”
Garnett was embarrassed beyond speech. He stared down at the monster in its dark, humped shell, a slime-green creature that had sprung from some other part of God’s mind, certainly, than most. It had gotten hold of the edge of his leather sole with the vise grip the snapping turtle is famous for, and true to its fame, it appeared to have no plans on letting go until Zebulon County got thunder. Although it did seem to Garnett that its dark little beady eyes were looking up at him fairly sheepishly. Poor thing, thought Garnett, to have to commit yourself so hard to one moment of poor judgment.
In a springtime as rainy as this one, snapping turtles strayed from their home ponds into wet ditches, looking for new places to find their hideous mates and breed their hideous children. Of course there would be one waiting for him in that weedy ditch under all those briars—that swamp that had been created by Nannie Rawley—and if he happened to have a turtle on his foot now, it was entirely her fault.
“Well I knew that,” he said, waving offhandedly at the giant turtle. “I just wasn’t feeling well, of a sudden. But I’m better now. I’ll just go home by the road, I think.”
She screwed up her face, shaking her head. “Not till I get that dinosaur off your heel. Let me go get a stick and whack it to make it turn loose of you.”
“No, really. You don’t have to.”
“Oh, Mr. Walker, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Well, Miss Rawley,” he snipped, “I can’t feature it. Knowing what a soft spot you have in your heart for pests and vermin.”
“You don’t know the half of it. I’ve had a grudge against snapping turtles ever since that big monster in my pond ate the feet off one of my ducks. There’s nothing I’d rather do than bang this old bastard’s brains out.” She peered down at Garnett, who winced, both at her foul language and at her manner. “But you’d better take off your boot,” she added. “I couldn’t be held responsible.”
“No!” he cried, gaining control of the situation. Her hands had felt so strong, guiding him up the bank like the grip of destiny itself. Like the claws of a she-bear! Having those hands on him once was enough for today. He wasn’t going to undress for her. “No, now,” he told her sternly, “there isn’t any call to take out your grudges on this old fellow. He and I will just head back home now.”
“You will,” she said.
“Yes. Thank you for your help.”
Garnett got to his feet as gracefully as possible, considering, and limped down Nannie Rawley’s gravel drive toward the road. The lopsided scrape of his walk sounded like a car with a flat tire. Now he would have to hike one hundred yards up the road to get to his own driveway, and pray to the Lord no one came driving along at that moment to see Garnett Walker transporting fifteen pounds of turtle up Highway 6 in a previously unheard-of fashion.
He turned sideways to cast a glance back. She just stood there in her bandanna and rolled-up dungarees, frowning, with her pale, skinny little arms crossed tightly against her blouse. She was quite put out with him, it seemed, or else she was making her mind up that he was crazy as a loon—one of the two. It made no difference either way to Garnett Walker.
“Oh!” he said suddenly, for he’d nearly forgotten the whole business. He turned back toward her again, tilting his head a little to the side. “I’m afraid your No Spray sign landed somewhere down there in the weeds at the bottom of the road cut.”
Her glare dissolved to a happy beam he could see plainly, for it lit up her face like sunshine on Groundhog Day. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Walker. The spray truck went by at seven o’clock this morning.”
{7}
Predators
Hey there,