“Yes,” said Harriet, reluctantly. Though she could not put it into words, the crates she’d seen in the back of the truck—with their skulls and stars and crescent moons, their wobbly, misspelled bands of scripture—felt very different from the Rattlesnake Ranch’s florid old billboard: a winking lime-green snake wrapped around a cheesy woman in a two-piece swimsuit.
“Well, who’d they belong to?” said Hely. He was sorting through a stack of bubble-gum cards. “The Mormons, had to be. They’re the ones that rent rooms over there.”
“Hmn.” The Mormons who lived at the bottom of Mr. Dial’s apartment building were a dull pair. They seemed very isolated, just the two of them; they didn’t even have real jobs.
Hely said: “My grandpa said the Mormons believe they get their own little planet to live on when they die. Also that they think it’s okay to have more than one wife.”
“Those ones that live over at Mr. Dial’s don’t have any wife at all.” One afternoon they had knocked on Edie’s door while Harriet was visiting. Edie had let them in, accepted their literature, even offered them lemonade after they refused a Coca-Cola; she had told them they seemed like nice young men but that what they believed was a lot of nonsense.
“Hey, let’s call Mr. Dial,” said Hely unexpectedly.
“Yeah, right.”
“I mean, call him and pretend to be somebody else, ask him what’s going on over there.”
“Pretend to be who?”
“I don’t know—Do you want this?” He tossed her a Wacky Packs sticker: a green monster with bloodshot eyes on stalks, driving a dune buggy. “I’ve got two.”
“No thanks.” Between the black-and-gold curtains, and the stickers plastered thick on the windowpanes—Wacky Packs, STP, Harley-Davidson—Hely had blocked nearly all the sunlight from his room; it was depressing, like being in a basement.
“He’s their landlord,” said Hely. “Come on, call him.”
“And say what?”
“Call Edie then. If she knows so much about Mormons.”
All of a sudden, Harriet realized why he was so interested in making phone calls: it was the new telephone on the bedside table, which had a push-button earpiece housed inside a Saints football helmet.
“If they think they get to live on their own personal planets and all that,” said Hely, nodding at the phone, “who knows what else they think? Maybe the snakes are something to do with their church.”
Because Hely kept looking at the telephone, and because she had no idea what else to do, Harriet pulled the telephone over to her and punched in Edie’s number.
“Hello?” said Edie sharply, after two rings.
“Edie,” said Harriet, into the football helmet, “do the Mormons believe anything about snakes?”
“Harriet?”
“Like for example, do they keep snakes as pets, or … I don’t know, have a lot of snakes and things living up in the house with them?”
“Where on earth did you get such an idea? Harriet?”
After an uncomfortable pause, Harriet said: “From TV.”
“Television?” said Edie, incredulously. “What program?”
“I didn’t know you liked snakes, Harriet. I thought you used to scream and holler
Harriet was silent, letting this low dig pass unremarked.
“When we were girls, we used to hear stories about preachers handling snakes out in the woods. But they weren’t Mormons, just Tennessee hillbillies. By the way, Harriet, have you read
“Yes, I know,” said Harriet. Edie had brought this story up with her Mormon visitors.
“I think that old set of Sherlock Holmes is over at your aunt Tat’s house. She may even have a copy of the Book of Mormon, in that boxed set my father used to have—you know with Confucius and the Koran and religious texts of the—”
“Yes, but where can I read about these snake people?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. What’s that echo? Where are you calling from?”
“Hely’s.”
“It sounds like you’re calling from the toilet.”
“No, this phone is just a funny shape.… Listen, Edie,” she said—for Hely was waving his arms back and forth and trying to get her attention—“what about these snake-handling people? Where are they?”
“In the backwoods and mountains and the desolate places of the earth, that’s all I know,” said Edie grandly.
The instant Harriet hung up, Hely said, in a rush: “You know, there used to be a trophy showroom in the upstairs of that house. I just remembered. I think the Mormons are only downstairs.”
“Who rents it now?”
Hely—excited—stabbed his finger at the telephone but Harriet shook her head; she was not about to call Edie back.
“What about the truck? Did you get the license number?”
“Gosh,” said Harriet. “No.” She hadn’t thought about it before, but the Mormons didn’t drive.
“Did you notice if it was Alexandria County or not? Think, Harriet, think!” he said melodramatically. “You’ve
