Loving Poe

Loving Poe

The first time Oliver held a snake, he was five years old. His mother prayed with certainty that it would be the last. She was wrong.

On his eighth birthday, she stood frowning in the doorway of his bedroom with her arms folded, watching her son lift three feet of patterned muscle from a glass enclosure his father had carried upstairs that morning. The boa constrictor was a surprise present, purchased from a reptile breeder who assured them the animal was gentle and very accustomed to handling. His mother reasoned it was much less demanding than a puppy, which Oliver had begged for since he could talk.

“His name is Edgar,” Oliver announced, allowing the snake to wind around his forearm.

“Edgar the snake?” his mother asked.

“Like Edgar Allan Poe.”

His mother regarded the creature's blunt head and dark, unblinking eyes. “Somehow, I do see a resemblance.”

"Don't you love him, Mom?"

"Not today."

And that, Oliver thought, was the problem with most people. They judged creatures by their appearances, mistaking unfamiliarity for danger. His mother hated spiders, and his father refused to enter the basement after discovering a since-freed bat hanging over the washing machine. His classmates were afraid of what they considered freaks of nature, like sharks, scorpions, and alligators.

Oliver, on the other hand, had an affinity for unusual animals. He knew most creatures were harmless if treated with proper respect. Edgar, with his intricate brown markings and beautiful amber eyes, seemed to Oliver the most misunderstood creature of all.

Within weeks, they were inseparable. He watched television with Edgar draped across his shoulders and completed his homework while the snake rested in his lap. He read aloud to Edgar from his favorite adventure books, convinced that the snake enjoyed the sound of his voice as much as the stories. When his parents argued, he’d confide in Edgar all the things he couldn't bring himself to tell anyone.

“You're my best friend,” he whispered one afternoon, stroking the smooth scales beneath the snake's jaw. Edgar flicked his tongue against Oliver's cheek, and the boy considered this a loving response.

There was only one unpleasant aspect of their friendship, and that was feeding time.

Every Friday evening, just before bedtime, Oliver's father placed a mouse inside the enclosure and switched off the bedroom light. Edgar seemed more interested in feeding after dark, and Oliver had learned that watching him eat was not particularly desirable.

Instead, Oliver climbed beneath his blankets and waited in the dark. Sometimes the room remained silent for several minutes, interrupted only by the hum of the enclosure's heating equipment and the distant murmur of his parents' television.

Then came the sound.

Thump.

It was a peculiar little noise, like a dropped shoe, followed by the faint rustle of bedding inside the enclosure. Oliver always felt relieved when he heard it.

“Good boy, Edgar,” he’d whisper.

After allowing his snake time to finish, Oliver would open the wire-mesh lid and lift him carefully onto his bed. Edgar settled into the warmth of the blankets, arranging himself in generous loops alongside Oliver's legs, occasionally resting his head on his thigh.

His parents had cautioned him about sleeping with the snake, explaining that Edgar belonged in his enclosure at night. Oliver insisted his snake was happiest beside him but quickly lost the argument. So, the boy had learned to wait until he was sure his parents thought he was asleep before freeing Edgar. 

By Oliver's ninth birthday, Edgar had grown noticeably thicker and longer. He began measuring the snake using pencil lines on his bedroom doorframe, like the markings his father used to record Oliver’s height.

“Five feet, three inches,” Oliver proudly announced one Saturday.

His father shook his head. “At this rate, he'll need his own room.”

“Never,” Oliver laughed.

That autumn, however, something happened that frightened Oliver. Edgar stopped eating.

Each Friday, patiently waiting a stretch of time, Oliver switched the bedroom light back on to find the mouse untouched. After three unsuccessful weeks, his father complained that now they had two pets and drove Edgar to a veterinarian specializing in exotic animals.

Dr. Hensley was a small woman with silver spectacles and a habit of addressing her patients as though they were children. She examined Edgar on a stainless-steel table while Oliver stood nearby, grimacing and twisting the hem of his shirt.

“Well, Edgar Allan,” she murmured, running practiced fingers along his body, “you're certainly growing properly.”

“Is he sick?” Oliver asked.

“He appears quite healthy. Sometimes snakes refuse food for reasons that aren't immediately obvious. Always check his enclosure temperatures and humidity. And it may be time to offer larger prey. Give the boy more of a challenge. A rat or hare will do."

Oliver recoiled. “What? Really?”

“It's all part of caring for an animal, sweetheart. Pets don't always share our food preferences.”

That Friday, Oliver's father brought home a live rat from the reptile shop. He carefully dumped it from its metal cage into the enclosure.

“Goodnight, Dad,” Oliver said, turning off the light. "Good luck, buddy."

He crawled into bed, pulling the blankets to his chin with crossed fingers, and waited. Five minutes passed.

Thump. Then the rustle.

Oliver grinned into the darkness. “There you go, boy.”

Later, Edgar curled beside him with what seemed an especially contented disposition, his broad body warm from the enclosure, his smooth scales sliding over Oliver's pajamas as he arranged himself. Oliver fell asleep with one hand resting against his snake's back.

As Edgar grew, so did his reputation. By Oliver's tenth birthday, neighborhood children who had once refused to play with him began asking to see the snake. Most stood several feet away while Oliver demonstrated how gently his boa accepted being handled.

At school, Oliver became a different source of amusement. He had never been popular, being smaller than most boys his age and more interested in academics than sports. The unfortunate nickname Snake Boy began following him through the corridors after he’d displayed his favorite photographs of Edgar for a science presentation.

One afternoon, Oliver opened his locker to find a picture taped inside. It showed a crude drawing of himself but with a forked tongue, scales covering his face, and a long tail protruding from the seat of his pants. Several classmates gathered behind him, laughing as he struggled to peel the paper away.

“Hey, Oliver,” a boy called. “Does your snake kiss you goodnight with his tongue?”

“Leave me alone,” Oliver muttered.

“Maybe you should take him as your date to the school dance.”

More laughter ensued. Oliver managed not to cry until he reached home, but the humiliation remained lodged somewhere deep beneath his ribs. His mother noticed his silence at dinner and asked whether something had happened at school. Oliver shook his head, pushed his plate away, and said he wasn't hungry.

Later, sitting cross-legged beside Edgar's enclosure, he told his snake about the school bullies. Edgar emerged slowly from his hiding place inside a hollow log, his eyes brightly reflecting the light from Oliver's desk lamp as if empathizing.

“They think we're both weird and ugly,” Oliver whispered. “Maybe I should bring you to the school dance and then see who’s so tough.”

Edgar's tongue flickered against the glass.

“At least you'll never be mean to me,” Oliver said as he opened the enclosure and lifted Edgar onto his lap. For the first time that day, he felt better.

His mother came upstairs to check on him but stopped in the doorway when she saw her son lying quietly with his damp cheek pressed against Edgar's smooth body. She’d never really understood his devotion to the snake, although she had begun to appreciate the comfort the creature provided. She studied her son for a moment before speaking.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?”

Oliver nodded. “Edgar's keeping me company.”

His mother smiled. “Well, he's certainly good at that.”

By the time Oliver celebrated his eleventh birthday, Edgar had grown to nearly eight feet long, and his father had purchased an enclosure so large that Oliver had to surrender his bookshelf and move his treasured collection of Transformers into the closet.

After long weeks of constant harassment at school, Friday evenings had remained a special ritual. Oliver ate dinner, watched TV with his parents, then brushed his teeth and changed into pajamas. He patiently waited for his father to bring Edgar his weekly meal before extinguishing his bedroom light.

The familiar bump invariably followed.

Sometimes Oliver imagined it was Edgar's way of saying good riddance to a long week, a small acknowledgment that everything was as it should be and that it was time to join his owner on the bed.

There were nights when Oliver woke to find the snake stretched along the length of his body, his head resting near Oliver's feet and his tail disappearing somewhere behind the bed. Other nights Edgar arranged himself in a broad circle, leaving Oliver a comfortable hollow in the middle. Oliver found these positions both amusing and comforting.

“You're way taller than I’ll ever be,” he told him. Edgar's tongue gently flicked his wrist.

A few months after Oliver's birthday, Edgar lost his appetite again. This time, neither a change in feeding routine nor adjustments to his enclosure made any difference. Week after week, the skittish prey remained untouched. Oliver became increasingly worried that something was very wrong with his beloved pet.

Dr. Hensley examined Edgar again, weighing him, checking his mouth, and questioning Oliver about the snake's behavior.

“Does Edgar Allan spend much time outside his enclosure?” she asked.

Oliver hesitated. “Sometimes.”

She looked over her spectacles. “Oliver, a snake this size needs a secure, enclosed home and carefully controlled conditions. Even one accustomed to human handling can become stressed and fall ill if those conditions aren't maintained.”

“But he likes sleeping with me.”

“I'm sure you're very attached to him, but that practice is not healthy for Edgar or you. He needs consistency in order for us to figure out why he isn't eating.”

Further examinations revealed no obvious issues. Although the veterinarian explained that snakes could sometimes fast for extended periods, she remained concerned about Edgar's continued refusal. She suggested it may be time to transfer him to a reptile sanctuary permanently for professional care.

Oliver was inconsolable.

He knew the veterinarian was only trying to help, but he wanted to give Edgar more time. The snake's eyes remained bright, his scales glossy, and his movements deliberate. Besides, Edgar still seemed perfectly content next to Oliver every night.

The following Friday, when Edgar refused his food, the decision was made. Oliver’s father called the sanctuary, and the snake would be collected the next morning.

Oliver tried to explain to Edgar that everything would be okay. Maybe he could visit Edgar, and there would be other snakes for Edgar to play with. But Oliver's heart was breaking at the thought of their separation.

”I wish you could tell me what’s wrong.”

That evening, he lay awake beside Edgar, listening to rain patter against the windowpane as thunder cracked the night sky. Oliver cried, imagining Edgar having to sleep alone at night. And worse, so would Oliver.

He stroked the snake's broad, muscular body, feeling the subtle movement beneath the scales, the quiet strength of a creature that had shared the past few years of Oliver's life.

“Poor old boy. I wish you'd eat something.”

Downstairs, his parents were watching a movie, their laughter occasionally rising through the heating vents. Oliver turned toward Edgar in the dark and pressed against the snake's smooth back. He remembered the first time he’d held Edgar when he’d been barely longer than Oliver's leg, and how everyone was wrong when they told him snakes were incapable of affection.

Outside, the thunderstorm continued, while inside the house grew quiet as his parents retired to their bedroom. For a long while, nothing disturbed the darkness but the raging storm and the steady hum of the enclosure.

For one final night, Oliver fell asleep with his arm draped over Edgar's body, comforted by the familiar weight of his only friend.

Then, sometime after midnight, came a thump. Oliver's mother stirred in her sleep.

“Did you hear that?” she murmured.

His father rolled onto his side. “Probably just a tree branch hitting the window. Or maybe that damned snake finally decided to eat.”

“Regardless, Edgar still has to go in the morning,” she reminded him.

“I know. The sanctuary people will be here around ten.”

They listened briefly, heard nothing more, and fell back asleep.

In the morning, Oliver's mother climbed the stairs carrying a basket of clean laundry against her hip. She knew the sanctuary was the right decision, but dreaded it anyway. Perhaps her son was old enough now for that puppy.

She knocked once and opened Oliver’s bedroom door, smiling at the sight of Edgar under the rumpled blankets. The snake raised his large head and regarded her with the same beautiful amber eyes that had enchanted her son years earlier.

The room was otherwise empty, and she was prepared to scold Oliver for leaving Edgar loose again after getting up for the day. Then, the snake slowly moved from under the blankets.

For several seconds, she stood frozen in the doorway, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. She stared at the snake, recalling the peculiar way he’d always slept beside her son.

Below Edgar’s cocked head, his exquisite pattern of chocolate, coppery scales was distorted by an enormous, unnatural swelling along the length of his body.

The laundry basket slipped from her grasp. She opened her mouth to scream, but her knees gave way before she made a sound.