They might not have registered that I was speaking to them. It’s so noisy they might not have heard me at all. So I just stand there watching them play, nervously fiddling with my necklace, biting my lips, hoping for eye contact.
They’re both very good players, pulling off complicated and daring calls. Five shots later, the man notices me and nods his head in greeting, smiling warmly. His eyes widen when he notices the Nyiko pendant around my neck.
He touches the woman’s shoulder and whispers to her, pointing at me.
She turns around — I gasp, seeing her face clearly for the first time. “Marie.”
And I faint.
I’m lying on my back, and I feel the weight of a hand on my stomach, a warm breath brushing against my ear. I open my eyes, and I don’t recognize where I am. I jump out of bed, alarmed.
And then I hear my name. I recognize her voice, even though it’s deeper now, more confident. On the bed there’s Marie, her makeup smeared by tears. She says, “I visit your Spiderkid website all the time, you know.”
I start crying. I don’t know how I managed to spend these past six years without her.
I’m back on the bed, and we’re kissing, our tongues hungrily probing each other’s mouths, our hands impatiently tugging at each other’s clothes. Marie touches my neck, and her fingers fall on the pendant. She takes her mouth away from mine, and she looks at Nyiko, tenderly caressing the icon. She lifts it and slides her tongue on my collarbone, on the sensitive skin of my neck.
Soon we’re naked. Marie is naked. I stand back and admire her body. I recognize the spiders covering her skin: mesothelae, the most primitive suborder.
Suddenly, I remember the man who was with her. And I’m uncertain, confused. I say, “What about . . .” — I don’t know his name.
“Sam’s in the living room. Can he . . .” — Marie smiles coyly — “. . . can he join us?”
I remember his strong body, also tattooed with spiders. I grin. “Yes. He’s beautiful. I like his smile.”
Sam and Marie are asleep. I gently disentangle myself, get dressed, and walk through their apartment. I see spider motifs everywhere: statuettes, urns, paintings, photographs, even whimsical stuff like wallpaper and knobs. There are intact spider webs hanging in corners and from furniture. I find the bathroom; I pee, but I don’t flush for fear of waking Sam and Marie. The shower curtain has childlike printed drawings of crawling spiders.
I belong here. I need to belong here.
I find a pen and a pad of paper next to the phone on the kitchen counter, and I leave a note on the top sheet, with my phone number. I’m shocked when I realize that I’m about to write “I love you.” But I don’t. I flee, feeling exposed, vulnerable.
As soon as I close the door to my apartment, exhaustion catches up to me. It’s dawn now. I pull out the foldout couch, and I drop on the bed without even taking my clothes off, eager to sleep.
But I’m too restless; I can’t get comfortable. Then I’m hit by a headache from being so tired.
I get up again, take my clothes off. I get a face cloth from the bathroom, run cold water on it, and go back to bed, pressing the wet compress over my forehead.
The headache subsides, and I feel my body relaxing, going through the transition from wakefulness to sleep. But then my skin crawls with goosebumps, my nose and ears get maddeningly itchy. I’m about to scratch when I feel something move across the palm of my hand.
I fling the compress from my eyes. There are spiders all over my body. Common house spiders crawl into my nose, my ears, my mouth. And there are more of them on the bed, converging on me. Soon, I’ll be entirely covered in spiders.
I’ve loved spiders my entire life. Nevertheless, I scream. More spiders crawl down my throat. My arms lie still, refusing to obey my frantic commands to swat away the arthropods.
There’s a loud banging at the door. My landlord shouts: “What’s going on in there? If you don’t open up, I’m going to unlock the door and come in.”
The spiders scurry away. I stop screaming, and I have just enough time to pull the sheets over me as the landlord bursts into my small apartment, wide-eyed and anxious.
My breath is laboured, my throat parched. I try to talk, but the words won’t come out.
The landlord’s face flickers between embarrassment and irritation. He looks around, and says, “What’s with all the cobwebs? Don’t you ever clean this place? Fucking students.”
Finally I say, taking deep breaths between each syllable, “Just a nightmare. Sorry. I’m so sorry.”
When I start crying, he leaves without another word.
I take down my website and email the lawyer to inform him that I’ve complied with his request. Then I forage for spiders, and I gather them into a plastic container. I let them loose in the backyard. I fill up a bucket with soapy water, and I scrub the whole apartment carefully, getting rid of all the spider webs.
Marie doesn’t call.
She doesn’t call the next day, either. Nor the day after that. Nor . . .
I finish my history paper barely in time, although I had to miss a few classes. There are notes online, so I should be okay as long as I keep up with the readings. I immerse myself in schoolwork.
I try not to think of Marie.
It’s been almost two weeks since that night.
Someone’s knocking at my door, firmly but not too loudly. I glance at my alarm clock. It’s 2:00 a.m., but I wasn’t asleep.
I barely sleep at all anymore.
I pull on some shorts and a T-shirt. I open the door. It’s Sam.
“Hey,” he says.
I don’t say anything. I shiver, and then I nod him in. I turn on a lamp, one that’s not too bright.
He slowly walks through the apartment, peering at everything, running his fingers on the spines of my spider books, smiling at my Spiderkid merchandise, frowning at the scrubbed walls.
I stand immobile, watching him. He’s wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and a jean jacket. He walks with grace and strength.
Finally he sits down at the kitchen table.
I say, “Want some tea?”
“Sure. That would be good.”
We don’t speak while I make the tea.
I get a fresh lemon from the fridge and cut it up in wedges. I put the wedges in a small bowl, and I put it down on the table. I take out two mugs, two teaspoons, a jar of honey. Then I bring the steaming teapot over to where he sits, and I sit, too.
While the tea steeps, Sam says, “Marie was moved that you’re still wearing the necklace.” He reaches out toward my throat, and I make an effort not to flinch. He presses his fingers tenderly on the effigy of Nyiko. I realize now that I’ve haven’t taken it off since the night I met them, since I saw Marie again.
He says, “Nyiko. Spiderkid. Arachne. Anansi. They’re all degraded memories of God. Of the primordial Spider who wove the universe into being.”
Suddenly, I’m impatient and irritable. I ask, sharply, “Why are you here? What do you want?”
“Right. It’s Marie. She’s been a wreck. She can’t sleep. All she can think about is you, and you stay away. Don’t you love her?”
“But she hasn’t called me. I left my number. I wanted — ”
“The way you snuck away . . . and that cold, impersonal note. Marie’s afraid that you’re not sure if you want to be with her anymore. If you’re going to toy with her . . . fuck. I don’t know whether to drag you back or scare you away.” I look down at his hands, and I see his fists tighten in frustration. “She admires you. She’s always wanted to be together with you again. But she was afraid that you’d moved on after that mess with your families and wouldn’t want her anymore. Her whole life has been upended. She needs you to be clear about what you want.”
I meet his eyes, and I see how much he cares for her. Something breaks inside me; I know that I’m beginning to love him.
We’ve got a bottle of wine going. The three of us are packing up my stuff; the process is neither efficient
nor rapid. There’s a lot of laughter, kidding around, kissing, and groping.
We began early Saturday morning. We finally get everything into boxes as the Sunday morning sun rises.
We go out for breakfast, and then Sam leaves to get the rental truck, so we can move me into their apartment. Our apartment, Marie corrects me.
Marie and Sam sit across from me on the floor of the living room. We’re all naked. I stare at the spiders tattooed all over their bodies. Between us, there’s a sealed clay urn decorated with a painting of a giant mesothele spider.
It’s not quite dawn yet, and there are candles burning. Marie’s eyes are closed; she is chanting softly, almost humming. Sam stares hard into my eyes while he talks solemnly. I don’t want to be nervous, but I can’t help it.
“God the Spider devoured the previous, dead universe, and then wove this universe into being. God has no name and no gender. Its memory lives on in degraded form in human folklore. Some peoples have not forgotten that Spider created the universe, and they gave God a name, made up stories based on their primordial memories but filtered through their cultures. Around the world Spider is worshipped as creator, in either male or female aspects: for the Akan of West Africa, Anansi Kokuroko is the spider god of creation; in the Congo, the name is Mebege; the Kiribati in the Pacific refer to the creator as Nareau the spider. In the Americas, the creator is remembered as Spider Woman: Koyangwuti to the Hopi, Sussistanako to the Pueblos, Teotihuacan to the Aztec. For comics fans, God has become a superhero called Spiderkid.”
He cracks a smile, and I relax.
I straighten my back, and I nod at Sam. I’m ready. He nods back.
Marie is still humming.
Sam leans forward and takes the lid off the urn. Marie’s mouth opens wide, and now she’s chanting a high note that conveys joy, anticipation, and awe.
Two mesothele spiders crawl out of the urn toward Sam and Marie. They climb onto my lovers’ toes and move upward. The spiders reach Sam and Marie’s open mouths. Sam and Marie extend their tongues, and the spiders crawl onto them, then disappear down their throats.
Sam is chanting, too, now.
For a while nothing happens. Then Sam and Marie fall silent, their eyes bulge, and their bodies convulse.
Legions of mesothele spiders file out from Sam and Marie’s tattoos. The primitive spiders crawl toward me, subsume my body.
I feel their jaws dig into my flesh. The pain is delicious. I welcome the creator.
NJÀBÒ
Njàbò, my only child, my daughter, walks with me. She is as old as the forest, while I was born but three and a half decades ago. Our ears prick up at the sound of drums. We scan the sky and spot a column of smoke to the northwest. We run toward it. The ground trembles under our feet.
The settlement is ringed by rotting carcasses. Their faces are mutilated, but the meat is left uneaten. These are the bodies of our people.
I weep, but Njàbò is past tears. She sheds her calf body. Njàbò the great, the wise, the ancient thunders with anger; her flapping ears rouse the wind.
Njàbò charges the human settlement, trumpeting her fury. Everywhere there is ivory, carved into jewellery and other trinkets, evidence of the mutilation of our people. She squeezes the life out of the humans and pounds them on the ground. The humans and their houses are crushed beneath the powerful feet of the giant Njàbò. She kicks down the fireplaces and tramples the ashes. She screams her triumph.
Njàbò’s shouts go on for hours. Our scattered tribe gathers from around the world to the site of Njàbò’s victory.
Throughout all of this I have been weeping, from pride and awe at Njàbò’s beauty, from horror at the deaths of both elephants and humans, from relief, from grief, from sadness and loneliness at my child’s independence. And, like too many nights of the past eight years, I wake, quietly weeping, from this dream that is always the same.
Waters is sitting on Cleo’s chest, nuzzling her nose, purring. Cleo’s cheeks are crusty from dried tears. She guesses that she’s been awake for two hours or so. She’s been lying on her back — motionless, eyes wide open — trying to forget the dream and the emotions it brings. The skylight above the bed reveals that dawn is breaking. She should get up, get started.
She stretches. It sends Waters leaping from her chest and out through the beaded curtain in the doorway. Cleo slides out of bed, two king-size futons laid side-by-side on the floor. She looks at her lovers in the diffused early-morning light: a domestic ritual that marks the beginning of her day.
Tall, graceful, long-legged Tamara, with her baby-pink skin, rosebud breasts, and long hair dyed in strands of different colours, has kicked off the sheet, lying on her back.
The hard curve of West’s shoulder peeks out from under the sheet he holds firmly under his armpit.
Assaad is sleeping on his stomach, his face buried in his pillow, his arm now stretched out over Cleo’s pillow, his perfectly manicured feet sticking out from the bed, as always.
And Patrice — gorgeous, broad-shouldered Patrice — isn’t back from work yet.
Patrice comes home from the night shift at The Small Easy to find Cleo yawning over the kitchen table, the night’s tears not yet washed away. He crouches and hugs her from behind.
“You look so tired, baby.” Cleo hears the smile in his quiet voice, the smile she’s always found so irresistible.
She turns and rubs her face against his chest. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”
Patrice kisses her on the forehead. “Then go back to bed. Let me make breakfast.” Again, that smile. She feels herself melting, almost going to sleep in his arms.
“But,” she says, yawning, “you’ve been cooking all night at the café. You should rest.”
He laughs and pats her butt. “I’ll be alright, Cleo. Allow me the pleasure of taking care of you, okay?”
She thinks, Can you make my dream go away? But she says nothing. She squeezes his hand, forces a smile, and leaves the kitchen.
For a few seconds, Cleo is confused, does not know where she is. Has she been sleeping? And then she remembers. This is the girls’ bedroom, the girls’ bed. The curtains are drawn, the door is ajar. What time is it?
She’d quietly snuck into the girls’ room after Patrice had come home, careful not to wake them. She’d crawled in between them and was calmed by their sweet, eight-year-old smells. She had only meant to lie down until Patrice called breakfast. Where were the girls now?
Shouldn’t Cleo be smelling tea, pancakes, eggs, toast? Hearing the chaotic banter of the breakfast table?
The kitchen is deserted and wiped clean. Indefatigable Patrice, again. No-one leaves a kitchen as spotless as he does. She looks at the clock: it’s nearly half past noon. She can’t remember the last time she slept in. Last night, the dream was more vivid than usual; it drained her.
Her mouth feels dry. She gets orange juice from the fridge and gulps it down. She wanders from room to room. She stops in the bathroom to splash her face.
The quiet is strange. She usually spends the morning and early afternoon tutoring the girls. West must be at the university, Assaad at The Smoke Shop. Patrice, she notices, is sleeping. Waters is curled up on the pillow next to his head. Where are the girls? And then she remembers: Tamara is back. She must have taken them out somewhere.
Just two days ago, Tamara returned from a six-month trip to Antarctica. She brought back photographs she’d taken of strange vegetation, species that paleobiologists claim have not grown for millions of years.
Cleo ends her tour of the house with Tamara’s office and is startled to see her sitting at her computer, fiddling with the photos from her trip. “Tam?”
“Clee, love, come.” Tamara, naked as she almost always is around the house, waves her over. Cleo is enchanted by her beauty, more so all the time. Cleo missed her while she was away.
Cleo settles in Tamara’s lap. Tamara is so tall that Cleo’s head only reaches up to her neck. Tamara’s poised nudity makes Cleo fee
l frumpy and unattractive, especially now that she notices the rumpled state of her own clothes, slept-in all morning. The feeling evaporates as Tamara squeezes her, digging her nose into Cleo’s neck, breathing her in. “I haven’t been back long enough to stop missing you, Clee. There were no other women on the expedition.” Tamara pulls off Cleo’s T-shirt, cups her sagging breasts. As always, Cleo is fascinated by the chiaroscuro of the soft pink of Tamara’s skin against her own dark brown. “They were like little boys, nervous at having their clubhouse invaded by a female, at having their secret handshakes revealed, protective of their toys.”
“Tam . . . Where are the girls?” How could Cleo have thought that Tamara had taken the girls out? Of all of them, Tamara was the least interested in the girls. She let them crawl all over her when they felt like it and was unfalteringly affectionate with them, but she never set aside time for them. She was vaguely uneasy with the idea of children.
“West took them to school. At breakfast, he talked about his lecture, to warm up. His class today is about the symbolic use of animals in politics. One of his case studies is about African elephants. You should have seen Njàbò! She got very excited and asked him tons of questions. She wanted to go hear West at school, and he thought it would be a treat for both of them. Especially seeing as how you seemed to need the sleep.”
“I can’t believe Sonya would be interested in that.”
Tamara runs her fingers through Cleo’s hair and says, “Doesn’t Sonya always do what Njàbò wants? Sometimes I think all of us are always doing what Njàbò wants. She’ll grow into a leader, that one. She’ll trample anyone in her path.”
Cleo is momentarily reminded of her dream, but she makes an effort to push it away. She jokes, “Wanna play hooky and go out for lunch? At The Small Easy?”
Eight years ago, Cleo gave birth to Njàbò. Most people thought that the girl looked like Patrice, especially because of her dark skin — like Patrice’s, darker than Cleo’s — but she could just as easily have been fathered by West or Assaad. The five of them had agreed not to do any tests to find out.
Assaad was Sonya’s biological father and her legal guardian. She’d been the daughter of their friends Karin and Pauline. Both women had died in a car accident the day after Njàbò was born. Sonya was three months older than Njàbò.
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