They’d put her in handcuffs and had agreed with the fat woman that she was probably on drugs.
Spyder had spent the next two months in the psycho ward at Cooper Green Hospital, courtesy her aunt and uncle’s signatures, had lost entire weeks in a gooey tranq haze of Xanax and amitriptyline, and once, after she’d punched an orderly, a needle full of Thorazine that had left her locked inside her useless body like a sentient corpse. But when they’d finally let her out, the fat woman and her children were gone, and her Aunt Margaret had handed over the keys and a savings account with the little money her mother had left and a third of what had come in from tenants over the years.
“You’re on your own now, little lady,” her aunt had said, and Spyder had looked her straight in the eyes and laughed.
“I always was,” she’d said.
Most of her mother’s things had been parceled out to relatives or given away to the Salvation Army, and Spyder had spent the first night alone in the empty house, listening to the hardwood and plaster voices, the familiar settling creaks and murmurs. Like her, the house had remembered, remembered her, remembered everything. In the last hour before dawn, she’d finally fallen asleep, nestled into a musty pallet of quilts and one of her Uncle Fred’s mothball-scented sleeping bags.
And in the house where she’d been born, where her mother had been born and died, Spyder Baxter had dreamed.
Spyder was sitting at the kitchen table eating a cold Spam sandwich, washing it down with Buffalo Rock ginger ale, when the phone rang.
“Yeah,” she barked into the receiver, gruff enough to put off anyone she didn’t want to talk to anyhow, firemen selling charity tickets or salespeople wanting her to switch long-distance companies. She took another sip of the cola-colored soda; Spyder loved Buffalo Rock, maybe because it was hard to find outside Birmingham and seemed sort of old-fashioned, or maybe just because nobody else she’d ever met could stand to drink the stuff.
Nothing from the other end of the line for a second or two, and then Byron, his cultivated, slightly nasal Scar-lett O’Hara drawl, affected so long that it had become as much a part of him as his ferrety eyes or his pretty, tapering hands.
“Spyder,” he said quietly, but it came out more like “Spah’da,” and she didn’t answer, listened instead to the parking lot sounds in the background. There was no telephone in Byron’s apartment, hadn’t been since his roommate had run up a four-hundred-dollar phone bill calling the Psychic Friends Network and gay sex numbers. Byron had to walk half a block to a Shop-A-Snak to use a pay phone; she pictured him standing there, shivering in the freezing wind, thoroughly, righteously miserable. Spyder took another bite of Spam and chewed deliberately.
“I’m sorry, Spyder,” and there was the faintest ash-gray trace of regret in his voice, genuine regret, not the paper-doll remorse he usually tossed about like confetti.
Or maybe he was just getting better at the charade.
She swallowed, stared at the dirty venetian blinds covering the kitchen window.
“I said I was sorry, Spyder.”
“I’m busy, Byron.” She took a fresh slice of white bread, spread Blue Plate mayonnaise thick and added lots of black pepper. A car horn blared through the receiver.
“You’re just eating,” he said, indignant, and there was no question about his sincerity this time.
“Yeah, so I’m busy fucking eating, okay?” She sliced off a wedge of the spongy pink meat, wrapped the bread around it.
“Just don’t be pissed at me, Spyder. Please? Just don’t be pissed anymore.”
She laid the sandwich down on the tabletop and licked a dab of mayonnaise off her thumb.
“Jesus, Spyder. Will you please say something?”
“Stop sniveling, Byron.”
Outside, a sudden gust of wind swept hard against the side of the house, wind that seemed to push itself slowly, painfully, against the old paint-flaky boards, pressing its insubstantial flanks against the windows.
“Spyder? Spyder, are you still there?”
The windows rattled and the wind thing slowly backed away, sighed itself roughly around the corners of the house and spread airflesh across the steeply pitched roof, over the cornices and gables. An icy draft leaked through the cracks in the window frame, winter breath oozing between glass and caulk and muntin.
“Spyder?”
“Yeah,” and she could hear the sudden flatness in her own voice, the gloating satisfaction drained away now. She closed her eyes and the world felt so thin, hammered down by the rumble and howl. Everything pressed into an onionskin moment, ready to tear and let the sagging, collapsing sky pour through.
The blaze of Heaven bleeding through, no matter how hard she squeezed her eyes shut.
“There was something in an alley, Spyder. On my way home,” and part of her was listening to him, still hearing anyway, registering the fear it was probably tearing him apart to show.
“Just go home, Byron. Please, just go the hell on home before you catch pneumonia and die.”
She didn’t give him time to answer, cut him short and left the receiver lying off the hook on the table. Spyder finished her supper with her eyes closed.
This is the first time that Spyder’s father made them spend the night down in the cellar. She isn’t even Spyder yet, just plain old Lila Baxter. She’s six, barely, and at the end of the summer she’ll start first grade. Her hair is black, and there’s a filthy Band-aid on her left elbow where she fell off the swingset yesterday. She’s sitting with her mother at the kitchen table and it’s stickyhot July weather, dog day premonition, and still the supper is getting cold, the china bowl of butter beans and the greasy green tomatoes. She’s reading a Dr. Seuss book her Grandma Baxter gave her a long time ago, and the pages have dirty fingerprint smudges and the cover’s about to come off. She knows it by heart, can recite the words from beginning to end. Last winter, she had a black molly she named Sam-I-Am that died because she took it out of the water to watch it breathe.
She’s thinking about Sam-I-Am, buried in a matchbox under her mother’s roses, deep so the cats can’t dig him up. She doesn’t really have to read the words anymore, spends more time looking at the pictures.
The screen door slams shut (thwack), the way it does when she just lets it go, lets the spring snap it back. Her mother gets up, goes to the stove and takes the chicken out of the oven, is still standing there, peeling back the aluminum foil, when her father comes in. Her mother looks at him and frowns, wipes at a wisp of hair that’s slipped loose from her ponytail and is sweatplastered to her forehead.
He stinks like work and whiskey (she wrinkles her nose), is still wearing his carpenter’s apron, pockets with three-penny nails and roofing tacks and little canvas loops for screwdrivers and hammers. “Quikrete” stamped across the front in pale red. He goes to the sink and washes his hands, scrubs them and scrubs and scrubs with the sliver of Ivory soap, stares out the window, up at the sky.
“Is it looking stormy, Carl?” her mother asks, setting the chicken on the table, and she goes to the refrigerator for the watermelon pickles. “On the radio, they were calling for thunderstorms again.”
And her father doesn’t look away from the window above the sink, lathers with the soap again, rinses his hands and dries them on a dish towel.
“Maybe it’ll cool things off some,” her mother says and sits down, starts spooning butter beans onto Lila’s plate.
Her father stands at the sink a long time, after she and her mother have begun to eat. Lila puts Green Eggs and Ham on the floor beneath her chair because he doesn’t allow books at the table. And he’s still watching the sky.