Miranda refused to enter the house after the Donaldsons told her. She put herself down in a lawn chair on the patio and pouted any time the other three went inside together.

“We were going to eat outside anyways,” Rebecca said to Roland. “It’s not putting us out much.”

“Actually, it’s literally putting us out,” Phil said. “Not that we mind, of course.”

Roland usually tried to sit downwind of Rebecca, because he enjoyed the perfume she wore, but this evening he sat by his wife and kept a hand somewhere on her body until she calmed down.

“I don’t know how many times we’ve told Hank to make sure the lid is sealed,” Rebecca said. “Really, I think that boy has a problem. He can’t concentrate.”

“Robbie’ll turn up somewhere,” Phil said, nodding. “He’s a lazy bastard when you get down to it.”

They were gathered around the patio table, sweating in the evening heat. Roland had worn a polo he’d just bought. It fit too tightly for the temperature, but it showed off the fact that he’d lost weight. If Rebecca had noticed, she’d given no sign. Roland wasn’t sure if he’d expected one or not. Probably not.

“We had a mouse at our old apartment once,” he said. “Miranda refused to put out traps. She stayed up all night three nights in a row, until the mouse made the mistake of showing itself. Then she chased him down and beat him to death with a boot.” He glanced at her. “Though I suppose this is different.”

“May I ask why the huge reaction?” Rebecca asked. “I mean, I know some people are afraid, but I think this goes beyond just fear.”

Plastic squeaked as Miranda shifted her weight. Roland wasn’t sure if she would tell the story. She’d almost finished her long island, putting her at a level of intoxication where she sometimes became stubborn and refused cooperate with anyone. When she reached such moods, Roland usually backed off and focused his attention elsewhere, until she’d either drank more or sobered up enough to move on. Either way, at that point, he was usually too drunk to care.

Tonight, Miranda tensed for a moment, then took a sip of her drink. Roland wondered if she’d be so cooperative if it was just him asking. He already knew, of course, so it was a moot point, but he couldn’t help but think about such things.

“The house I grew up in had a storm cellar,” Miranda said. “We used it to store canned goods. I didn’t go down there. I was scared of the dark, and the only light was this little bare bulb.” She shrugged. “I was just four or five, so I didn’t know any better. I also didn’t know to keep my fear to myself. Meghan was around twelve at the time, and even then she was a bitch. I don’t remember one time growing up that she was ever nice to me. And one day, Dad was gone and Mom was in the driveway cleaning the car. Meghan and one of her friends jumped me. Tied a bandana around my eyes, shoved a sock into my mouth, and hauled me into the cellar. They dumped me there and ran up the stairs and closed the door. They locked it. I can still hear the bold sliding in place. I panicked. I jumped up and fell against the shelves along the wall. And something fell down the back of my blouse. Something alive.”

She shuddered and took another drink. “I knew what it was. You can just feel it. There’s nothing like it. Twisting and coiling, its scales so dry...I don’t know why people say they’re slimy. They aren’t. and it didn’t fall out the bottom of my blouse, either. You’d think it would but for whatever reason it didn’t. Maybe it liked my body heat, or...I passed out. It was still on me when Mom found me. She almost had a heart attack. And I haven’t been able to stand them ever since.”

She glanced almost sheepishly at her husband, then at the couple across from them. “That’s my oldest memory,” she said. “At least, I think it is. But who really knows?”

They sat in silence for a moment. Roland studied Phil and Rebecca, mostly Rebecca. She met his gaze, eyes asking if the story was true. He gave a slight nod.

“That’s terrible,” she said. “I knew Meghan was...I mean, I knew she was what she was, but...”

“She’s not as bad as that anymore,” Miranda said. Her standard apology. “She’s gotten a little better.”

“What kind was it?” Phil asked.

“What?”

“The snake. What kind?”

Roland frowned. Had he asked, when he first heard the story? He didn’t think so.

“I don’t...” Miranda looked blank. “I don’t know. It didn’t bite me.”

“It was probably a black rat, like Robbie. They’re harmless. I mean, I’m sure they’re fucking terrifying when you get one on you in the dark like that. Lord knows I wouldn’t want it. I’m just saying, if it helps, you probably weren’t in any real danger.” He caught his wife looking at him. “What?”

Rebecca shook her head and turned away from him. “We should’ve warned you before you came over,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

Miranda smiled. Story told, elephant in the room identified, labeled, and set aside, she could come out of hiding.

“You didn’t know,” she said. “It’s okay.”

“I should’ve, though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you even look at Robbie. Besides, that’s just something you tell people: hey, just so you know, there’s a snake loose in our house.”

Roland had thought the same thing.

“He’ll turn up,” Phil said. “When he does, maybe we’ll upgrade to a cat or something.”

Rebecca scoffed. “Good luck. You’ll have a war on your hands, you try to get rid of that thing.”

Phil stood and stretched. “Then I’d better reload. Ladies, you look like you could use refills as well. Rollo, wanna give me a hand?”

“I’m not sure I want to, now.”

“If you wanna stay here and talk girl shit, be my guest. I’ll go into the kitchen and discuss football with myself.”

Roland followed Phil into the house. As he closed the sliding glass door behind him, Roland basked in the cold tingling of sweat evaporating off his skin.

“Hot out there,” he said. “Wish you guys would find the damn snake so we could come inside.”

Phil laughed. “Honestly? Freaks me out. Like, there’s a three-foot snake loose in the house, and I have no fucking idea where it is.”

“Three-foot?”

Phil began mixing the cocktails into the women’s glasses. He said, “That was a hell of a story.”

Roland grabbed a beer and took a swig. “Yeah, it is.”

“I never knew her sister was such a cunt.”

“We didn’t invite her to the wedding.”

“Why?”

“’Cause she’s a cunt.” He paused. “Hank isn’t here, right?”

“Shit, no. You think think I’d risk talking like this if he could hear? First thing he’d do is run and tell his mother. I love him, he’s my son and all, but he’s a little snot sometimes.”

Roland leaned against the fridge and let the chill unglue his shirt from the small of his back. Should’ve worn looser clothing, for all the good it was doing.

“You talk to her?”

Phil was staring at the glasses before him, using a shot glass to measure out the alcohol. When Roland didn’t answer immediately, he stopped and looked up.

Roland took a drink. “Have you?”

“No,” Phil said. “I was waiting to hear what you had to say. It’s not the kind of thing you bring up with her. Rebecca can be...hell, you know her. She’s not close-minded, really. She’s just...”

“Set.”

Phil pointed at him with the bottle of vodka. “You got it. Set.”

They’d had another dinner party two weeks earlier, this one at Roland and Miranda’s.

They rotated; Roland hated it, because if he had to be honest, his house was nicer. No terrarium in the living room. No crayon on the walls, faded vomit stains in the carpet. He’d never said as much even to Miranda, wasn’t sure if she felt the same way or not. They’d discussed having kids and decided against it. But what Miranda set her mind to and what she actually wanted weren’t always the same thing.

Phil had approached him on the porch after dinner, while the women were cleaning dishes. Phil offered a cigarette, which he did at least once every time they got together. Roland usually turned him down, as he did that night.

“I’ve been thinking,” Phil said.

Roland grunted. “Is that wise?”

“Ha. Very funny, hotshot.” He blew a puff of smoke. It drifted off the porch and faded slowly into the twilight.

“I’m assuming you don’t just want me to know that you were thinking,” Roland said.

“I was thinking about how you used to feel about Rebecca.”

Roland leaned against the railing and didn’t respond.

“I’ve been thinking how, if it wasn’t for me, you might be with her right now.”

Actually, she had been rather emphatic about that. But Roland didn’t correct him.

“And Miranda,” he said.

“We’re not talking about Miranda yet. We’re talking about Rebecca.”

“Your wife.”

“Before she was my wife.”

Roland shrugged. “So?”

Phil smiled. “You know how you felt, Rollo. Don’t kid yourself.”

Roland turned to face him. “Might as well just say what you want to.”

“You still like her.”

“We’re friends.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

There was nothing to say to that. He couldn’t admit it. He could deny it, but not convincingly, he didn’t think.

“Give me a fucking smoke.”

He normally felt guilty when he took a drag. Hated himself for giving in. But this time he felt nothing, not even the humidity, which seemed to have faded. The night had become so cold, he almost shivered.

“I can’t blame you,” Phil said. “She’s very attractive, even after the kid. I was just thinking, and I’ve been reading a little but mostly thinking...”

His voice trailed off.

“Yes?” Roland said.

Phil swallowed. “I kind of like Miranda, too.”

Silence in the yard. Not even crickets. Maybe the sound of a car a few blocks over, or a night bird somewhere nearby or distant, but those noises bled into the darkness and ceased to exist. Even the rush of blood in Roland’s ears was faint and barely audible, as though his brain were imagining it just to fill the void around him.

“You’re mad,” Phil said.

Roland nodded. “That would be an appropriate response.”

“I’m not saying I’m trying to take her away. Christ, Roland. I love Rebecca. I do. I don’t want a divorce and I don’t want to marry Miranda, and not just because you’re my friend.”

“That’s very kind of you, Phillip. In that case, what do you want?”

“You’re gonna make me say it?”

Roland sighed. He watched the smoke on his breath as he did so. He should say no and walk inside. He should ignore the image of Rebecca, fifteen years ago. The desire she’d conjured in him, like no one he’d ever met, desire that went unsatisfied as she chose a series of other men, culminating, for some reason, in Phil. He should ignore what had never happened and let it drift into the obscurity for which it had already been headed. Let it slip away like smoke rings on a summer evening.

But he didn't.

“You don’t really think they would consider it,” he said.

Phil leaned forward slightly. “Rebecca told me just the other day she thought something was missing. Sexually, she meant. It’s a long shot, but I think I could talk her into it. I know I could. Not a regular thing, but maybe once, after a few drinks? Yeah, it’s possible.”

Roland didn’t think so. In fact, he knew. But if you wanted something to be true for long enough, you could ignore reality and convince yourself of anything. A lesson he’d learned the hard way over a period of years, following her around like an attention-starved puppy begging for scraps of affection, remnants of the love for others.

“And I think Miranda has a curious streak in her,” Phil said. “I think you could plant the idea, let it grow. You can’t force that woman into anything, and you don’t want to, anyways. But let her convince herself, huh? Everyone needs a little excitement at this point in their lives. We’re not old, but we aren’t young anymore, either. I read somewhere, we’re stuck in this grey area. This nothingness. I mean, can you tell me you’re perfectly happy? Don’t tell me you don’t need a little excitement these days. Don’t tell me Miranda doesn’t.”

Roland shook his head. He couldn’t say that. He and Miranda still made love regularly, still enjoyed a level of physical intimacy he knew many couples didn’t after six years of marriage. But did that mean they were perfectly happy? Perfectly satisfied?

“Think it over,” Phil said. “Suggest it to her. If the answer’s an emphatic no, then we’ll just drop it. If you think she may be inclined...” He shrugged. “We’ll go from there.”

Roland had slept on it. Then, two nights later, after he’d had too many whiskey and Cokes, he told Miranda what Phil had said. She stared at him for a few interminable seconds, during which he felt every ounce of liquor he’d consumed beading out of his neck and underarms. Then she said, almost calmly, like there wasn’t a wellspring of lava boiling up inside of her, “I knew you couldn’t let it go.” This was followed by the slamming bedroom door, and the better part of a week spent sleeping on the couch.

Now, two weeks later, Roland saw Phil watching him. The drinks were finished.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Phil said. “Did you talk to her?”

Roland nodded. He’d drunk most of his beer without noticing. He killed what was left and grabbed another.

“I’ll try again,” he said, staring at the bottle, little bubbles trickling up the side, fighting gravity with an ease he yearned for. “She might warm up to it.”

They joined their wives outside. They talked until dinner, then ate mostly in silence, communicating with the clinking of ice against glass, the scrapes of knives and forks. It was a good meal. Rebecca had always been a great cook.

Afterwards they sat for a while. The women talked. Roland tried not to belch. He noticed, for the first time, all the glances Phil cast at Miranda. Roland wondered if he came off that way. He’d at least made an attempt at subtlety, for Miranda’s sake. Also for the sake of fifteen years of friendship. You couldn’t just throw that away, any more than you could a marriage.

“I made peppermint brownies,” Rebecca was saying. “I don’t have any room for them, though.”

“I haven’t eaten that much in forever,” Miranda said. “I didn’t think I had it in me anymore. It’s like I’m in college and I don’t give a damn.”

“Hey,” Phil said, sitting up in his seat.

Rebecca looked at him. "Hey yourself, handsome."

Phil pointed. “Looky there.”

They turned. It was dark enough that the automatic patio lights had come on. Roland squinted against the artificial intrusion, trying to see into the shadows just beyond. Something slipped low against the ground, one shadow atop another. Moving sluggishly, as though careless of the world around it.

Roland took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Maybe one too many beers. Maybe two.

“Is that...”

But he could tell, by the way Miranda whipped around in her seat and clenched her fists in her lap, that it was.

“Told you he’d show up,” Phil said. “Just like the son of a bitch to wait until after dinner.”

He hopped out of his seat and waddled over to the snake. Picked it up as though it weren’t what it was, and started walking back to the table.

“Robbie’s a good snake after all,” he said. “Crafty, too. How the hell he got out here—"

“That’s close enough,” Miranda said. She hadn’t even turned around; she just held up an open palm.

Phil stopped. He looked puzzled for a second, then he nodded. “Yes, yes. Sorry.”

“Put it up,” Rebecca said. “Put it up, and put a brick on the lid of that tank. Glue it shut. Weld it. I don’t want that bastard getting out ever again.”

“My lady is cruel but correct,” Phil said. He lifted the snake’s head so that it was just inches from his face. “I sympathize, Robbie ol’ pal, but I have to agree with her on this one. This house isn’t big enough for the five of us.”

He went inside. As the door closed, Rebecca said, “Jesus Christ, there’s something wrong with that man.”

Miranda smiled wanly. “He means well. He’s just drunk.”

Rebecca shook her head. “No. This isn’t drunk.”

A few seconds later, Phil came out. He stopped just short of the table and bowed curtly to Miranda.

“The deed is done, my dear. The horrible beast has returned to his cage.” He glanced at his wife. “With a medical dictionary holding him in place. In related news, apparently we have a medical dictionary."

Miranda stood. “Okay, in that case, I’ve had to piss for the past hour. Excuse me.”

She went inside and Phil sat down. Roland swirled the last of his beer, watching the inverted funnel the motion created. Then he downed it and grabbed Miranda’s long island and nudged the straw aside and took a drink.

Rebecca watched him, a small smile on her face. It was a smile he remembered well. One she reserved for idiots and those she cared for. As long as he was on the receiving end of that look, Roland had never cared which category he fell into.

“You boys were inside a long time earlier,” Rebecca said. She glanced at her husband. “When you were getting drinks before dinner. What were you talking about?”

“Man stuff,” Phil said. “Snake wrangling, the like. Rollo’s thinking of taking up the trade. I was trying to talk him out of it. Poor boy doesn’t have the constitution for it.”

She gave him the look he wanted, then turned back to Roland. “That so?” she said through that smile. “Snake wrangling? Is that your thing now, Roland?”

He held her eyes a moment then looked away. What, he wanted to ask, did you women talk about while we were in there? That was a better question, and one to which the answer was not already known.

“And football,” he said. “We talked some of football.”

“It’s July.”

“Never too early to prepare our fantasy drafts,” Phil said. “See, women don’t understand how it goes—"

From inside the house, Miranda screamed. Roland recognized the sound right away, even though he'd never heard anything like it. Never imagined it. A sound so primal it seemed hardly human, and yet it unmistakably came from his wife.

He was out of his chair and running before either of the Donaldsons even moved. Dropped the long island somewhere on the way, heard the glass shatter. He threw open the door and stood in the kitchen for a moment, tracing the sound. The scream had begun to wilt as his wife's throat became raw, as the moment surpassed her ability to express it. He followed the fading cry down the narrow hallway, to the closed bathroom door.

He kicked the door open. He could have opened it normally, he knew even as he raised his leg, but he kicked the door open and it slammed against the shower stall. His wife lay huddled in the far corner, back against the counter, hands covering her face. The screaming had stopped, replaced by a guttural wet cawing. Roland knelt in front of her and pried her hands away. She looked at him briefly, looked past him, and slapped her palms over her eyes again.

Roland looked over his shoulder. By this time, Rebecca and Phil were in the doorway. They stared, faces pale. Phil swayed a little, drunk.

"What the hell?" he said.

Roland stood and walked over the toilet, lid up. As he got closer, he saw something he shouldn't have, something that shouldn't be there, and even before his mind processed what it was, he knew. His stomach churned, his mouth going dry. He couldn't have spoken even if words would have meant anything.

Inside the toilet bowl, the snake tensed, sensing him. It kept its head huddled against its body, tongue flicking in an out. Almost entirely motionless except for a minute shiver that rippled across its length in a ceaseless wave.

Roland heard Rebecca hovering over his wife, apologizing in a steady, monosyllabic stream of what was supposed to be words. Phil strode up beside him and stared into the toilet, then glanced to the rest of the house, then back to the toilet.

"I don't get it," he said. Then, after a moment, he shook his head. "Wait. How many fucking snakes do we have here?"

Something tickled in the back of Roland's throat. He knew what it was and fought to suppress it. The effort caused him to shake.

Phil noticed but misinterpreted. "I'll get it," he said. "Just...let me...I mean, we've got..."

He stopped and rubbed his face. "Fuck."

It came out. Roland felt it slip past his lips, a soft hiss that could have just been a pent up breath but wasn't. Another followed, and a third, and he clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle it.

Rebecca stopped talking. He felt Miranda's gaze on him, those eyes he'd known for so long now, but not as long as the other pair he felt. Not as long as a lot of feelings he'd known, and this more than anything else stifled the laughter, backed it up and put a halt to it before it could bend him over and explode out of him like bile.

"Yeah," Phil said, the room so quiet his voice echoed. "I mean, I guess it is kind of funny, in a fucked up way." He glanced at his wife. "Right?"

Roland turned and headed for the door. He glanced quickly at the women. They both watched him, their faces almost identical. Too similar, in fact. Their eyes still bewildered, but now also hurt, condemning. There was humor in it, but Roland didn't know where it came from and didn't think it should be there. He walked down the hall until he fell against the wall, knocking off a picture of Rebecca and Phil on their honeymoon in Hawaii, where Rebecca had always said she'd wanted to go and Roland had always wanted to take her.

He leaned against the wall as the last bit of laughter came out as a sob. After a minute, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Let's get rid of that other snake," Phil said. "Then we can get this one."

So they did, throwing the first snake into the neighbor's yard. When they got back to the bathroom, the women were gone. Roland didn't know where and he didn't think about it. He didn't expect to see either of them again for a while, nor did he want to. Couldn't shake their faces from his mind, the way they merged into one. Didn't like to think that maybe Miranda had been right, or even worse, that maybe Phil was right, maybe there was a chance. Which was worse? To have hope but never attain, or never have a chance and be happy otherwise? As he reached into the bowl and wrapped his hands around the snake's body, Roland thought the question over in his head. There had to be an answer somewhere. He would find it before the night was over, or else it would find him. That was all he knew.