Simply, Baptiste had spit on Lester. He spit, Charlie said, on Lester with such force that Lester’s whole face looked like it had been painted red. And when Lester went back into the bar to wash up, he couldn’t get the blood off of his face. He couldn’t scrub it off. Oil wouldn’t take it off. Bleach didn’t work either. Borax, Fels Naphtha, mint oil, Vaseline, kerosene, gasoline. No luck. Everyone around began saying it was snake’s blood and medicine power. Charlie Kicking Woman told Louise it was nothing but superstition. “Still,” he said, “Baptiste Yellow Knife is no one to mess with.”

Now Louise looked at the scar on Baptiste’s chest and she was moved to touch him. He had caught her up. She felt a weakness in the channel of her back. She cupped her hands to her waist to brace herself. No one could hurt her now. She had married the son of Dirty Swallow.

A rush of wind caught the door and it slammed shut like a rifle shot through the quiet house. For a short time she could hear Dirty Swallow singing and then there was silence. Louise imagined Dirty Swallow on the other side of the wall, gripping the knuckles of one hand, a snake coiled beside her.

Baptiste stood before her naked. There would be no shivaree for this marriage, no short sheets and rice, no music and dancing, no pranks and no laughter. He did not smile. Louise removed her dress and draped it over the snake tails. The room was dusk scented, summer roots, dry leaves and overripe berries. She could smell him, smell her husband. She lay down for him. She closed her eyes. His belly was cool and slick against hers. She could feel herself sinking beneath him, the bedsprings giving way to the pressure. She could feel the steam of his breath on her throat. Her spine ached. He did not whisper that he loved her. She held him close to her and closer until she could feel him and then she let him go.

Louise ROADS

Louise had only been married to Baptiste for four days when she escaped. She had begun imagining a lifetime cooped up in the soily nest of Dirty Swallow. She would wake at night from dreams of snakes to find she was struggling to free herself from her husband’s arms. Baptiste and Dirty Swallow would spend early mornings visiting each other. They recounted old stories like good friends, laughing and joking, but when she would arise to join them Baptiste would leave the room to check on his horses. Dirty Swallow would busy herself in the kitchen. And Louise would stand in the living room, alone, wondering how she would fill her days, useless, not even a guest in her husband’s home.