Page 14 of The Serpent King

“Dinner’s done,” he called out to the living room.

Dill’s mother sucked in her breath and rose from the recliner, holding her mid-back, taking a moment to straighten, and grunting with pain. She entered the kitchen and sat at the table. She picked up Dill’s CD.

“What’s Joy Division and New Order?”

Shit. Dill had a peculiar genius, honed over his years of friendship with Lydia, at turning any band into a Christian band on the spot. Arcade Fire? Refers to the fires of hell that those who forsake Christ in favor of video games will experience. Fleet Foxes? Refers to the Bible story in which Samson captured foxes, tied torches to their tails, and let them burn the fields of the Philistines. Radiohead? Refers to how human minds have to be living conduits to the Holy Spirit, akin to radio antennas.

“Oh…New Order…refers to the new order that Christ will create when he returns to Earth and reigns…Joy Division…refers to the division in joy between people who’ve been saved and people who haven’t. They’re Christian bands.”

Either his explanation satisfied his mother or she was too tired to quarrel. Probably the former, since she never seemed to be too tired to fight with him.

Dill pulled the casserole dish from the oven. It smelled okay and it was hot and cheesy. They weren’t picky in the Early house. He took a quarter loaf of stale white bread from the top of the refrigerator, to help soak up the casserole. Grabbing a couple of plates and spoons from the drying rack beside the sink, he set the table and dished them both up some food.

They ate quietly. “How was Nashville?” his mother finally asked.

“Fine. Lydia helped me get some good clothes for cheap.”

His mother dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “I wish you had more Christian friends from church.”

“Travis is from church.”

“I wonder about him. Dressed in black all the time with that demon necklace.”

“Dragon.”

“Same thing. Read Revelation again.”

Dill got up to refill their water glasses.

“And Lydia’s not from church,” his mom said.

“Yeah, but I told you that she’s Episcopalian or Presbyterian or something. She’s Christian.”

Dill’s mom snorted. “Love to see an Episcopalian take up the serpent or speak in tongues. Signs follow the faithful.”

“I can’t choose my friends according to who’s willing to pick up a copperhead.”

“Sure you can. It’s that you won’t.”

“Kind of hard now anyway, since the only snakehandling pastor around got locked up.”

Dill’s mom gave him a sharp look. “Don’t make light.”

“Trust me. I’m not. I visited him while I was there.”

Dill’s mom gave him another look, with a different sort of sharpness. “You might’ve mentioned that sooner. How was he?”

Dill stuffed a bite in his mouth and chewed slowly while he considered how to answer. “All right, I guess. I don’t know. Fine for prison? Looks like he’s made some friends because he had some tattoos on his knuckles.”

Dill’s mother wrinkled her forehead. “Really. Tattoos? Of what?”

“Mark sixteen eighteen. Across each of his eight knuckles.”

Dill’s mother stared at her plate. “He’s always been able to hear God’s voice. I haven’t understood everything your father’s done, but I trust that God’s willed it.” She mopped up the last bit of her casserole with a heel of dry bread.

I wouldn’t be so sure about God wanting Dad to do everything he’s done in his life. Somehow I sort of doubt that. Dill took their plates to the sink and put them in to soak. He opened a drawer, careful to not pull it off its track (it could be finicky), and pulled out a sheet of plastic wrap that they used, washed, and reused. He wrapped up the casserole and put it in the fridge.

“You better get some sleep if you’re going to start school tomorrow,” his mom said.