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One happy side effect of her disappearance was that she was a no-show in court the day of the hearing on the restraining order. The matter was dismissed, but I was still going to need a judge’s orders to get my guns back. I knew in my heart of hearts, I wasn’t done with her, nor she with me. I’d been responsible for the death of her only child and I’d pay for that.
In the meantime, I told myself there was no point in worrying. Solana was gone and if she came back, she’d come back and I’d deal with her then. I put the matter behind me. It was done, done, done. I couldn’t change what had happened and I couldn’t give in to the emotions that ran like a riptide under the placid surface I presented to the world. Henry knew better. Tactfully, he probed, wondering aloud how I was coping with Tiny’s death, suggesting that perhaps I might benefit from “talking to someone.”
“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” I said. “I did what I had to do. He didn’t have to attack me. He didn’t have to jam his fist through the glass. Those were his choices. I made mine. What’s the big deal? It’s not like he’s the first guy I ever killed.”
“Well, that puts it in a fresh light.”
“Henry, I appreciate your concern, but it’s misplaced.”
I was aware that I sounded testy, but aside from that, I felt fine. At least that’s what I told him and anyone else who asked. Despite the brave face I wore, I went through my days with a low-level dread I could scarcely acknowledge. I wanted closure. I needed to have all the loose ends tied up. As long as she was out there, I didn’t feel safe. I was afraid. “Terrified” was a better word. I realized later I was experiencing a form of post-traumatic stress disorder, but at the time all I knew was how hard I had to work to suppress my anxiety. I had no appetite. I didn’t have trouble falling asleep, but I’d wake up at 4:00 A.M. and that would be the end of it. I couldn’t concentrate. I was fearful of crowds and u
My only relief came from my early morning run. I craved movement. I loved the feeling of flying over the ground. I needed to be sweaty and out of breath. If my legs hurt and my lungs burned, all the better. There was something tangible about the calm that came over me when I was done. I started pushing myself, adding a mile to the three I typically put in. When that wasn’t quite enough, I ramped up the pace.
The lull was short-lived. Sunday, February 14, was the last day I’d be able to enjoy the quiet-artificial though it may have been. In the coming week, though I didn’t know it yet, Solana would make her move. Valentine’s Day was Henry’s birthday, and Rosie treated us to di
Monday morning, I got to work at eight-early for me, but I hadn’t slept well and I’d ended up going out for my run at five thirty instead of six, which put me at the office half an hour ahead of my usual time. One virtue of my office-perhaps the only virtue-was that there was always parking available in front. I parked, locked my car, and let myself in. There was the usual hillock of mail piled on the floor under the slot. Most of it was junk that would go straight into the trash, but topmost was a padded envelope that I assumed was another set of documents from Lowell Effinger’s office. Melvin Downs had failed to appear for his deposition, and I’d promised Geneva that I’d go after him again and have another heart-to-heart. Clearly, he’d been unimpressed by the threat of contempt of court.
I dropped my shoulder bag on my desk. I slid out of my jacket and draped it over the back of my chair. I tackled the manila envelope, which was stapled shut and took a bit of doing before I opened it. I separated the flaps and looked in. At the first glance, I shrieked and flung the envelope across the room. The action was involuntary, a reflex triggered by revulsion. What I’d glimpsed was the hairy appendages of a live tarantula. I literally shuddered, but I didn’t have time to calm myself or gather my wits.
Horrified, I watched the tarantula feel its way out of the padded mailer, one hairy leg at a time, tentatively testing the characteristics of my beige carpeting. The spider looked huge, but, in fact, the squat body was no more than an inch and a half wide, suspended from a set of eight bright red legs that seemed to move independently of one another. The front and rear parts of its body were round and its legs appeared to have joints, like little bent elbows or knees, which terminated in small flat paws. Body and legs together, the spider could have filled a circle four inches across. With mincing steps, the tarantula crawled across the floor, looking like an ambulatory wad of black and red hair.
If I didn’t find a way to stop it, it would scuttle into one of the spaces between my file cabinets and reside there for life. What was I supposed to do? Stepping on a spider that size was out of the question. I didn’t want to get that close to it and I didn’t want to see stuff squirt out when I crushed it to death. I certainly wasn’t going to whack it with a magazine. My distaste aside, the spider represented no danger. Tarantulas aren’t poisonous, but they’re ugly as sin-mossy with hair, eight glittering round eyes, and (I kid you not) fangs that were visible from half a room away.
Oblivious to my concerns, the tarantula tiptoed out of my office with a certain daintiness and proceeded to cross the reception area. I was afraid it might stretch and elongate, insinuating itself under the baseboard like a cat slipping under a fence.
I kept a wary eye on it, rapidly backing down the hall to my kitchenette. On Friday I’d washed the clear glass coffee carafe and set it upside down on a towel to dry. I grabbed it and sped back, amazed at the distance the tarantula had covered in just those few seconds. I didn’t dare pause to consider how repellant it was at close range. I made my mind a blank, turned the carafe upside down, and set it over him. Then I shuddered again, a groan emanating from some primitive part of me.
I backed away from the carafe, patting myself on the chest. I’d never use that carafe again. I couldn’t bear to drink from a coffeepot that spider feet had touched. I hadn’t solved my problem; I’d only delayed the inevitable issue of how to dispose of it. What were my choices? Animal Control? A local Tarantula Rescue group? I didn’t dare set it free in the wild (that being the patch of ivy outside my door) because I’d always be searching the ground for it, wondering when it was going to pop out again. It’s times like these when you need a guy around, though I’d have been willing to bet most men would have been as disgusted as I was and just about as squeamish at the idea of spider guts.
I went back to my desk, sidestepping the empty manila envelope, which I’d have to burn. I took out the telephone book and looked up the number for the Museum of Natural History. The woman who answered the phone didn’t behave as though my situation was unusual. She checked her Rolodex and recited the number of a fellow in town who actually bred tarantulas. Then she informed me, with a certain giddiness, that his lecture, complete with a live demonstration, was a favorite among elementary-school kids, who liked having the spiders crawl up and down their arms. I put the image out of my mind as I dialed the number she’d given me.