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Snow White hears a knock and she thinks she knows what’s up, thinks she knows to turn away whatever’s rapping. But she’s not ready and she could never be. Out the window stands her mother. Not Mrs. H. No, this is Gun That Sings. Older, grey in the pomp, face carved like someone meant to write something there and never finished. But it’s her. Snow White sees her own face. Her dark eyes. Her mouth red as feeding. Her hurt laid out like leather. It’s not a fair fight. Not even a whiff. Some things a girl has in her to say no to and some things cut her down before she knows she’s gone. Sure, some twiggy, thorny snap in her says: no, this is awry, this is a bent thing, in that place that tells her to belly up to the floor before anyone’s even shadowed the doorframe. But it don’t matter. You can’t ask why she did it, when she was warned, when she was told. The plum truth is you would too, if everything impossible stood out there saying you could be loved so perfect the past would go up like a firecracker and shatter across the dark.
Snow White grabs on to her mama and don’t let go. First she’s quiet like morning, then she says mama a couple of times, real small against that brown shoulder. Sure, Gun That Sings don’t smell right—smells like a cold forest and a pool of frozen silver—but maybe that’s what a mother smells like. How would she know?
“There now,” says Gun That Sings. “I found you. It’s all right.”
“You’re dead.”
“What’s dead but a little slower than the living? I got here. Let’s you and I roll us some cigarettes and talk up the moon. I bet no one ever taught you to roll a cigarette proper.”
She don’t sound right either. Sounds like the wheels spinning on a slot machine, rolling up all winter.
“Remember what I said about magic and don’t be so quick to call me the devil, child.”
Snow White wants a mother so bad it’s like a torn up body wanting blood. She knows how to roll a damned cigarette. Could teach the Tobacco King of Carolina to do it nice and tight for once. But she lets her mama show her, crushing the dried up leaves against white paper.
“I tried to find the Crow Nation. I tried to find you.”
“Oh, you don’t want to do that,” croons Gun That Sings. “You’d be the fairest of them all. No more at home than at your father’s table, all dolled up like any dress could fix you. Don’t go sticking your hangdog face where it’s not wanted. Ain’t those poor folk been strick enough? Don’t need Miss H to haul water for them, no ma’am.”
Snow White takes the name like a fist. Go inside, her bank sense says. She’s nothing but a creature and she ain’t your mama. This will go bad on you.
Snow White takes a shaky draw on her cigarette and falls down dead.
Snow White
Breathes Lightning
Snow White comes to with Bang-Up kissing her, sucking the smoke out of her body like steam coming off a pond. Bang-Up’s nearly crying which for most folks is all the way crying and it’s a bad night. Coughing, throwing up black pitch like the devil’s shit, Old Epharim feeding her bear broth and everyone growling her didn’t we say, didn’t Hex tell you up and down, what’s addled you, girl.
When Snow White finally sleeps it’s like being buried, that deep, that heavy.
You said. You said.
Snow White
Drinks the Ocean
It happens again when acorns start their rat-a-tat falling, like cavalry guns on the hill.
Little Mab’s gone west to do a train job: coin and corn and a hunk of pearl as heavy as a human heart. She couldn’t stand it, not stealing anything for so long. Cocklebur is entertaining a law-man with a taste for green stockings. Astolaine Bombast is skinning a raccoon for fur and victuals. Everyone’s minding theirs.
Old Epharim sees her come, but nobody and nothing troubles that old bear. She stirs her stew. Beaver, beans, and beets as red as blood.
Snow White hears a knock and she thinks she knows what’s up, thinks she knows to turn away whatever’s thumping. She’s not even surprised to see her mama there again, looking like nothing ever went south, like she just wanted to see her girl again. Just wanted to jaw about the weather. Door’s open before Snow White can stop herself. A mother’s like a poison made for only one soul. She opens the door because on the other side it’s her own face looking back, it’s a mirror as big as her whole life and she just wants to be saved.
“Come on, baby girl. We didn’t finish our conversating. Set on the porch with me and we’ll share some good whiskey. I bet no one ever taught you how to drink whiskey straight.”
Snow White sits down. She knows how to drink for fuck’s sake. Could teach the Scottish laird who dreamed up whiskey in his sheep pen to bolt it down and never flinch.
And this time she’s got Rose Red with her.
Snow White cocks her girl and she doesn’t say who are you or if you play me poor I can play you back. She just sits there with death pointed at her mother. She can feel the blood in her cheeks and her breath hitches.
“You look just like your father, staring at me like that,” sneers the thing wearing the face of Gun That Sings.
Snow White swallows that like a sword. She lets the hammer click back in its place. Everything in her that’s not nailed down is shaking loose.
Snow White slugs back her whiskey and falls down dead.
