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.
I wasn’t sure what to expect of someone who made a living consorting with tarantulas. The young man who arrived at my office door half an hour later was in his early twenties, big and soft, with a beard that was probably meant to lend him an air of maturity. “Are you Kinsey? Byron Coe. Thanks for the call.”
I shook his hand, trying not to bubble over with gratitude. His grip was light and his palm was warm. I looked at him with the same devotion I accorded my plumber the day the hose on the washing machine came loose and spewed water everywhere. “I appreciate your being so prompt.”
“I’m happy to be of help.” His smile was sweet and his thicket of blond hair was as big as a burning bush. He wore denim overalls, a short-sleeved T-shirt, and hiking boots. He’d brought with him two lightweight plastic carriers that he set on the floor, one medium and one large. The coffee carafe had attracted his attention the minute he arrived, but he’d been polite about it. “Let’s see what you got here.”
He eased himself down to the floor on one bent knee and then stretched out on his tummy and put his face near the carafe. He gave the glass a tap, but the spider was too busy to care. He was feeling his way around the perimeter, hoping for a little doorway to freedom. Byron said, “He’s a beauty.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“This fellow’s a Mexican red-legged tarantula, Brachypelma emilia, maybe five or six years old. A male judging by his color. See how dark he is? The females are closer to a soft brown. Where’d you find him?”
“Actually, he found me. Someone left him for me in a padded envelope.”
He looked up with interest. “What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion, just a very sick practical joke.”
“Some joke. You can’t buy a red-legged spiderling for less than a hundred and twenty-five dollars.”
“Yeah, well, nothing but the best for me. When you say Mexican red-legged, does that mean they’re only found in Mexico?”
“Not exclusively. In states like Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas, they’re not uncommon. I breed Chaco golden knees and cobalt blues. Neither cost as much as this guy. I have a pair of Brazilian salmon pinks I picked up for ten bucks each. You know you can actually train tarantulas as pets?”
“Really,” I said. “I had no idea.”
“Heck, yes. They’re quiet and they don’t shed. They do molt and you have to be a little bit careful about bites. The venom’s harmless to humans, but you’ll have swelling at the site and sometimes numbness or itching. Goes away pretty quick. It’s nice you didn’t kill him.”
“I’m a conservationist at heart,” I said. “Listen, if you’re going to pick him up, please warn me. I’m leaving the room.”
“Nah, this guy’s had enough trauma for one day. I don’t want him thinking I’m the enemy.”
While I watched, he removed the ventilated lid from the medium-size clear plastic box. He took a pencil from my desk, picked up the carafe, and used it to coax the spider into the carrier. (The pencil was going, too.) He snapped the lid in place and used the pop-up handle to lift him up to face level again.
“If you want him, he’s yours,” I said.
“Really?” He smiled, his face flushing with delight. I hadn’t given a fellow that much pleasure since Cheney and I broke up.
“I’ll also be happy to pay for your time. You really saved my life.”
“Oh man, this is payment enough. If you change your mind, I’ll be happy to bring him back.”
I said, “Go and god bless.”
Once the door closed behind him, I sat at my desk and had a nice long chat with myself. A Mexican red-legged. Bite my ass. This was Solana’s doing. If her purpose was to scare the shit out of me, she’d done well. I wasn’t sure what the tarantula represented to her, but from my perspective it spoke of a twisted mind at work. She was putting me on notice and I got the point. Any relief my morning run had generated went straight out the window. That first glimpse of the spider would be with me for life. I still had the willies. I put together the files I’d need, picked up my portable Smith-Corona, locked the office door behind me, and loaded the car. The office felt contaminated. I’d work from home.
I made it through the day. Though easily distracted, I was determined to be productive. I needed comfort, and for lunch I allowed myself a sandwich made with half an inch of olive pimento cheese spread on whole grain bread. I cut it in quarters the way I had as a child and I savored every tangy bite. I wasn’t all that strict about dinner either, I must confess. I needed to sedate myself with food and drink. I know it’s very naughty to use alcohol to relieve tension, but wine is cheap, it’s legal, and it does the job. Up to a point.
When I went to bed that night I didn’t have to worry about lying awake. I was ever so slightly inebriated and I slept like a stone.
It was the faintest whiff of cold air that woke me. I was sleeping in sweats, in anticipation of my early morning run, but even suited up, I was cold. I glanced at the digital clock, but the face was black, and I realized the usual soft purring of appliances had ceased. The power had gone out, an irksome business for someone as time-oriented as I was. I stared up through the Plexiglas skylight but couldn’t estimate the hour. If I’d known it was early, 2:00 or 3:00 A.M., I’d have pulled the covers over my head and slept until my inner alarm clock woke me at 6:00. Idly I wondered if the outage included the whole neighborhood. In Santa Teresa, if the wind blows wrong, there are tiny breaks in the service and the flow of electricity cuts out. Seconds later the clocks might flash on again, but the numbers continue to blink merrily, announcing the upset. In this instance there was none of that. I could have groped across the bed table for my watch. By squinting and angling the face, I might have been able to see the hands, but it didn’t seem to matter much.