by A W Hartoin
“That is my luck.”
A door opened and Marlee stuck her head out. The girl didn’t say a word before Fats snapped her fingers and Marlee disappeared.
“You have got to teach me that,” said Pat from the bottom of the stairs.
Fats trotted down, each stair complaining as she went. “That cannot be taught. Scaring people without being scary is a God-given talent.”
“Hello,” I said. “You are scary.”
“No, I’m not. I’m direct.”
Okay. I’ll just let you live with that delusion.
I came down the stairs much slower. “Is it okay with you if we take the box?”
“Fine with me. I didn’t know it was down there.” He opened the door to the basement. “Have at it.”
I should’ve known it couldn’t be that easy. ‘Cause it’s never easy. The Mullanphy family had been in that house since 1935 and I’m pretty sure they never cleaned out the basement. Three generations of clutter were stacked up in crazy towers to the floor joists overhead, sometimes cardboard boxes were wedged in against ancient and frighteningly frayed wires and the whole thing smelled like mold and fresh dirt.
“Just like Uncle Moe’s house,” said Fats, ducking under Christmas lights hanging from hooks and a pair of dusty tennis rackets.
“A fire hazard?”
“Yes, it is. My dad thinks he’s got some serious dough stashed down there.”
Don’t ask. You do not want to be an accessory after the fact.
I clamped my teeth together and, for once, I didn’t ask the obvious question, but Fats answered it anyway.
“He robbed some banks in the eighties. He wasn’t working for Calpurnia then so he didn’t have to kick it up to her, so Dad says it has to be in that basement. He’s not living high on the hog.”
“I didn’t hear that.” I started looking in boxes and searching for labels.
“Too late,” said Fats. “It was three banks in Arkansas and Dad thinks probably another couple in Iowa. He did spend some time in Minnesota in the seventies and according to Calpurnia there was plenty of dirty going on then.”
“Shut up.”
Fats gave out a throaty laugh.
“I could tell the rookies about your dear old Uncle Moe. They’re looking for a leg up. He might do it.”
“I’m really worried about you telling the Feds about Uncle Moe.” She moved a stack of boxes that had to weigh over a hundred pounds without breaking a sweat.
“I could,” I said, digging back between towers.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’d have to tell the great, and now hanging by a thread, Tommy Watts how you know about Uncle Moe and worse, who I really am.”
“He has to find out some time,” I said.
“Nope. My grandmother will still tell you that Rocco was three months premature. She totally believes it.”
“That’s different.”
“Tommy doesn’t want to know. It’ll make his life hard.” Fats wormed her way past several towers of boxes by a combo of pushing and hip checking. I think the boxes feared her. “It is difficult to get a man to understand something when his salary depends on him not understanding it.”
“Who said that?” I asked.
“Upton Sinclair.”
“The Jungle?”
She grinned at me over the boxes. “It’s about meat packing. I have an interest.”
“I bet.” I dug through some more boxes. “I think I’m seeing a pattern.”
“In me? I would think so.”
“Not you, although I can. This basement goes by decade. The deeper you go, the further back in time. Where are you?”
“Eighties. Somebody saved this thing.” She held out a crimping iron.
“My mom has one of those,” I said.
“I want to try it.”
“Don’t. It’s bad.”
We dug back through the eighties. I found a whole box of what could’ve been prom dresses. I hated to think there was a time when girls wore metallic gold dresses with a black lace overlay. I don’t even want to talk about the big butt bows.
“Seventies!” announced Fats. “That’s a whole lot of polyester. Didn’t they throw anything away?”
“No, they didn’t,” said Nancy, arriving with a towel wrapped around her head. “There are three ratty old Christmas trees down here somewhere.”
“We found them,” said Fats. “I’m thinking about reporting your house as a health hazard.”
“Fine with me. I called those junk guys once to have them clear it out and Pat nearly had a conniption. He thinks there’s buried treasure down here or something.”
I hope he’s right.
“Hey, Fats,” I said. “Can you see the label on that box way back there?”
She produced a mini Maglite and aimed the narrow beam at the box stuffed under a ton of sporting equipment, including a kayak, that was hanging from the ceiling. “Bingo. Nineteen sixty something.”
We dug through seventies camping equipment and a collection of pool toys to find the sixties off in a back corner. It was slow going with my cast getting in the way.
“I can’t get in there,” said Fats.
“Convenient,” I said. “It’s like the nest of Aragog back there.”
“Nice reference. Follow the spiders, Ron.”
“But it’s the Dark Forest.”
“Get a move on. I’ve got a wedding to plan,” said Fats.
“A wedding? Congratulations,” said Nancy and I was completely forgotten.
I pulled some boxes labeled Candice’s wedding out of the way and shivered. The closer I got to Maggie’s belongings the more I didn’t want to find them. I’m not going to claim it made any sense. I just had a bad feeling about it. Not the something’s not right feeling. The this-is-going-to-be-bad-for-you feeling.
“Got it yet?” asked Fats.
“Almost. Nancy, do you have any bug spray? I don’t think I’m alone back here.”
“You’re fine. We just bug bombed a month ago.”
“I don’t think it took.”
I know you can’t hear people rolling their eyes, but let’s just give me the benefit of the doubt, and say I could, in that instance, because those eyes were a-rollin’ like pinwheels.
“You want to come back here?” I asked.
“It’s your case,” said Fats.
“My case,” I muttered. “It’s not even a case.”
“What was that?”
“Nothing. Toss me your Maglite.”
Fats tossed it the way she does everything. Hard and fast.
“Son of a bitch!”
“You should’ve caught it,” she said.
“I’ve got one useable hand.” I rubbed the small knot on the side of my head and switched on the light. After digging for a few more minutes, I spotted a box with “Maggie” written in lovely script. It made me sad to see it back there tucked away for over fifty years all her stuff; things she cared about, shoved in beside boxes of paperbacks and unused school supplies.
“I found it,” I said.
“Finally,” said Fats. “Grab it and let’s go.”
I passed back the box and looked to see if there was another one. “Hold on.” I squatted and reached back to pull from the back and my hands touched something. Not warm. Not fur, thankfully. But something and then I felt a kind of odd tingling that wasn’t really a tingle.
“I think I feel something,” I said.
“If it’s the creeps then I’m with you,” said Nancy. “I hate it down here.”
“It’s not—ow—son of a—shit!” I came spinning out of the depths of the basement, flapping my arms and screeching. For once, Fats didn’t leap into action. The snippets I caught were of mouths dropped and astonishment.
“Help me!” I yelled. “They’re biting me.”
“What?” asked Nancy.
“I don’t know.”
“Spiders!”
That’s
right. I got overrun by spiders, hundreds of spiders. Face. Eyes. Arms. Legs. Other places. And what did Calpurnia Fibonacci’s bad ass bodyguard do?
“I’m out!” Fats booked it up the stairs, hitting each tread so hard I thought the whole thing would come down on my head. Getting knocked out might not have been the worst thing at that point, but still, come on.
Nancy grabbed a hideous prom dress and smacked me with it. “Get your clothes off! They’re in the clothes.”
She didn’t have to tell me twice. I screamed and stripped. Chuck dreamed of me stripping that fast, but that was spider-induced psychosis. I would’ve done anything to get those things off me. If someone said, “Shoot Nancy and those spiders will be off you,” it’d have been bye-bye, Nancy. I was gone, totally and completely gone.
Down to my cast and the granny panties I’d decided to wear that day, I wildly screamed and smashed spiders. “Get them off! Get them off!”
“Water!” yelled Nancy.
She found a bucket, filled it with ice water, and threw it at me. Freddie Mercury couldn’t have hit the note that came out of me. Every dog in the neighborhood started barking and Nancy’s cat burst through their cat door and wasn’t seen for three days. I think I damaged my own hearing. On the upside, it worked. Spiders don’t like getting doused in ice water anymore than humans and they either died or ran back to the nether regions of that God-awful basement.
I stood there, shaking violently with a burning, raw throat and squashed spiders all over me.
“Jesus!”
Did I think about who said it or that I was basically naked and that my granny panties had several holes that I didn’t mind because they were super comfy? No, I didn’t. I turned around. Standing at the base of the stairs was Pat, carrying a fire extinguisher, Fats, carrying a can of roach spray, Marlee with her twenty dollar bill, and a boy about fourteen years old with eyes coming out of his head like Roger Rabbit.
“You have really big boobs,” said Marlee.
That got everyone moving. Nancy threw a bridesmaid’s dress at me and yelled, “Get him out of here, Pat!”
Pat dropped the extinguisher and forced his kids up the stairs. Marlee went willingly. The word “spiders” did it for her. Pat had to use a broom on the boy and I’m not sure that would’ve worked without the threat of losing Fortnite for the rest of his life.
I wrapped myself in an extraordinary confection of shiny purple with white fur trim. Somebody wore it in a wedding. No kidding. Nancy emailed me the picture later. Faith in 1973. It was worse in a group and included a fur muff that would’ve been handy for my frozen hands.
“I’m so sorry. I thought the water would help,” said Nancy.
“Really?” asked Fats, still holding out the roach spray at arm’s length.
“Shut up,” I said through chattering teeth. “You were going to spray me with poison.”
She lowered the can but didn’t concede that poison wasn’t a great idea. If it’s worth doing, it’s worth overdoing was her motto.
Nancy got me upstairs, past her lingering son, who got a stinging smack for looking, and I went into the shower to defrost until the water heater ran out way too quick with a bag over my already soggy cast. My clothes went into the washer, spiders and all, and I ended up dressed in some of Fats spare gym clothes because Nancy, a fifty-year-old mother of three, didn’t have anything big enough to fit over my butt.
“That’s it,” I said, sitting at their kitchen table hunched over a cup of Tension Tamer.
“You’re not giving up on Maggie, are you?” asked Pat. “Please don’t say that.”
“I’m giving up on ice cream. It hates me and my butt.”
Nancy towel-dried my hair and said, “You’re not fat. You’re curvy. Curvy’s in. Look at Kim Kardashian. Now that is a big butt.”
She thought she was helping, but knowing my butt wasn’t quite as big as Kim Kardashian’s wasn’t going to do it.
“My leggings are too big for you,” said Fats, still clutching her can o’poison.
“Only because you’ve got bigger thighs than The Rock.”
She stuck out a leg. “You think so? I’ve been working on it.”
“Is that a good thing?” asked Nancy. Her eyes said no.
“Ya, it is,” said Pat, earning him a smile from Fats, but Nancy gave him the stink eye and he slunk back down to the basement with Fats’ spray to carry up the box.
“We should go,” said Fats. “We’ll be late.”
“If you think I’m going out to dinner,” I said, “you’re out of your mind.”
“We have to. Tiny’s meeting us at Kronos in fifteen minutes.”
“Tiny can meet me in the dumpster out back. ‘Cause that’s where I’m going to throw myself.”
“It’s not that bad,” said Fats.
I stood up and spread out my arms. Nancy recoiled, but Fats gave me a look and shrugged. “You’ve looked worse.”
I have, but I’m not admitting it.
“You’re out of your mind. Look at me.” I had on the stuff she threw in her bag for emergencies. What emergencies would require pink and purple tiger-striped leggings and a neon green hoodie with “Ain’t No Bitch” printed on it was a mystery. And don’t let me forget, underneath I had on one of Nancy’s old nursing bras because it was the only thing I could stuff my “really big boobs” in. No, I didn’t have panties. They were optional. A bra was not.
“Nobody will care. It’s Kronos and you have to talk to Tiny.”
“I’m covered in spider bites and Calamine lotion. I’m pink polka-dotted.”
“Sorry we didn’t have the clear stuff,” said Nancy. “We never use it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “We invade your house. Bring up an ancient murder and wreck your basement and give your son an eyeful. It’s me that needs to apologize.”
Nancy smiled. “Never mind that. Pat agreed to clear out the basement. He hates spiders. I owe you.”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” she said. “I think your phone’s been buzzing.”
I sighed and reluctantly took a peek. Uncle Morty. Awesome. I ignored him, but couldn’t ignore Nancy and Fats taking a closer look at my arm.
“It has to come off,” said Fats.
“You’re going to cut off her arm?” asked Marlee. “Ew.”
“Her cast, stinky,” said Nancy. “Go tell your dad to bring in his toolbox.”
“It’s fine,” I said.
“Smell it.”
No need to sniff. The odor had a way of getting into my nose whether I wanted it to or not. I hadn’t been the best at keeping it dry and the only place I sweated was in my cast. Now that it was seriously wet, it really smelled.
Fats poked and said, “It’s soft and lumpy.”
“Fine. I’ll go in tomorrow and take care of it.”
Nancy scoffed. “Our basement tried to eat you. I’ll take it off.”
“Well—”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve done it loads of times. My family specializes in broken bones. That peeping Tom upstairs has broken his arm twice and his foot once. This is a piece of cake. I’ll just use some snips. Five minutes tops.”
Nancy knew her stuff and had my wrinkly red arm out of its prison in no time and into a dry, non-smelly brace and sling. While she was working, my phone kept buzzing. Uncle Morty.
“Just answer it,” said Nancy. “How bad can it be?”
“You don’t watch the news very often do you?” I asked.
“I do, but it’s your uncle.”
“He’s the smelly one and crabby and demanding.”
She smiled and adjusted my sling strap. “Sounds like family. Are you forced to live above a spider breeding ground?”
“I said we’ll clean it out,” said Pat. “That stuff might be worth something.”
“It’s worth incinerating.”
Pat threw up his hands. “I give up.”
“Finally,” said Nancy. “All set, Mercy
?”
I stood and hitched up my tiger-striped leggings. “I guess. Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“No problem,” said Nancy. “You’ll let us know what you find out about Maggie?”
“I will. Did you look in the box, Pat?” I asked.
Pat closed his toolbox, slowly snapping shut the latches. “You know, I was going to, but when I started to open it, I couldn’t.”
“Spiders?” asked Fats with a shiver.
He chuckled. “Yeah, it was the spiders.”
Nancy went over and hugged him fiercely. “Go up to bed. I’ll be there in a minute.”
He hesitated and she shrugged. Pat nodded to us, slightly pink, and headed upstairs.
Fats produced a toothpick out of nowhere, snapped it in half and ate it. I will never get used to that. “Do I need to have a talk with somebody?”
Nancy sighed. “What good does talking do?”
“Obviously you’ve never seen me talk.”
“I have,” I said. “It leaves an impression.”
“It’s fine. He’s a bit of an idiot, but he always manages to redeem himself,” she said with a laugh.
“What does your husband do for a living?” asked Fats.
“We own Mullanphy Motor Works. Hence all the posters of you up in our garage.”
“You’re on posters?” I asked.
“I did a little modeling,” said Fats. “Me with an engine is a surefire hit.”
I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t picture it. I really couldn’t. Maybe if Fats was punching the engine.
“I believe that,” said Nancy. “Pat has your entire collection. One of our distributors gives them to him.”
“That can’t be comfortable,” I said.
“It’s better now that I’ve met you two.” Nancy walked us out to Fats’ truck and gave us hugs. “Thank you for getting that box out of here and doing something about the murder. It’s weighed on us for far too long.”
Nancy got teary-eyed and so did I, mostly about being too big for mom jeans and covered in spider bites, but still it was an emotional moment.
We got in the truck and Fats said, “You’re pathetic.”
I blew my nose and snuffled, “I agree.”
“They’re just spider bites. How long before they go away?”
“No idea. And don’t say ‘just’. You ran. I know your Kryptonite now.”