Miss Rachel Haverford’s excuse for a glass of neat whiskey every morning
was that she never got over the fright of finding a rattler coiled in her bedroom closet,
on her washing, when she went to hang up her negligee.
Jem made a tentative swipe under the bed. I looked over the foot to see if a snake would come out.
None did. Jem made a deeper swipe. “Do snakes grunt?” “It ain’t a snake,” Jem said. “It’s somebody.”
Suddenly a filthy brown package shot from under the bed.
Jem raised the broom and missed Dill’s head by an inch when it appeared.
“God Almighty.” Jem’s voice was reverent. We watched Dill emerge by degrees.
He was a tight fit. He stood up and eased his shoulders, turned his feet in their ankle sockets, rubbed the back of his neck.
His circulation restored, he said, “Hey.” Jem petitioned God again. I was speechless.
“I’m ‘bout to perish,” said Dill. “Got anything to eat?” In a dream, I went to the kitchen.
I brought him back some milk and half a pan of corn bread left over from supper.
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