Glimpse

by Steve Whibley

  I moved down the carpeted staircase and through the living room into the kitchen. Moonlight filtered through the window above the sink and lit up a newly constructed web inside the glass jar. It’s probably asleep. This is going to be easy. I grabbed a spare jar from under the sink, plucked up the one the black widow called home, and placed them gently on the kitchen counter.

  I dumped half the bottle of nail polish remover into the empty jar. The fumes stung my nose and eyes, and I stood back and listened for noises from upstairs. Nothing. So far so good. I turned to the jar with the spider and whispered, “Your turn, you little murderer.” I twisted the lid but kept it pressed firmly in place. The spider hovered on its web, not moving despite being jostled.

  I slowly slid the lid off and turned the jar upside down over the kill jar. I’m not entirely sure if the spider just happened to wake up when I tilted its home, or if it had been lying in wait for me to do something stupid… like remove the lid. I’m thinking it was probably lying in wait. Either way, one second it was perched on a strand of webbing, and the next it was on the edge of the jar, inches from my hand, about to escape. I didn’t react at first. I just stood there staring dumbly at the little beast—I imagined it staring back, eyeing me as if it were trying to decide where best to sink its fangs. I could almost see the venom dripping from its mouth. I held my breath, placed the kill jar on the counter, and reached my free hand for the lid so I could at least knock it back into its original jar. But when I moved, the spider moved too.

  I panicked and fumbled the jar like some butterfingered quarterback. It would have crashed to the floor if I hadn’t found my grip at the last second. I snatched the lid from the counter and slapped it back into place. I realized two things when I leaned toward the glass jar to make sure I still had the spider trapped. First, I didn’t have the spider—the jar was empty—and second, something was tickling the tip of my ear. I jumped and swatted the side of my head like a flea-infested dog, sending the bottle cap-sized arachnid bouncing across the kitchen table.

  A shiver raked up my spine, and I reached for the closest weapon I could find: a fork sitting beside the sink. The spider dodged left, and I lunged. The metal prongs found their mark, impaling the spider’s bulbous backside and pinning it to the counter. It twitched twice and then stopped.

  Interesting fact: spiders don’t go limp when they die. They look pretty much exactly the same as they do when they’re alive. So I stood there for a few minutes, half expecting the widow to somehow dislodge the fork from the table and walk away. When I was sure it was dead, I picked up the spider with the fork, used the lip of the jar to pull the monster off, and then replaced the lid. I wiped up the mess I’d made, poured the nail polish remover back into the bottle, and cleaned up the kill jar, which I hadn’t needed after all. When I was finished, I returned the jar with the spider-corpse to the ledge behind the sink.

  Hopefully, Becky wouldn’t see the fork holes. If she did, I thought I could convince her that they’d always been there. Who knows? Maybe some species of spider breathe through their backs like whales or dolphins.

  When I was confident the kitchen was in pretty much the same state I had found it in, I snuck back to my room and crawled into bed. Even though it felt as though spiders were crawling all over me, I felt pretty good about myself. The whole kill-the-spider thing hadn’t gone entirely as planned, but I’d successfully saved my sister’s life. Not that she would ever know it. Just to be safe, I’d stick to her side like a fat kid on a cookie, at least until 2:23. But she definitely would not have a death by spider bite.

  I closed my eyes and drifted off.

  I woke up to a shriek rattling the rafters.

  Chapter 25

  I knew the difference between a scared shriek and an angry one, and the one that had woken me definitely sounded angry. Still, my heart was pounding as I rushed downstairs. When I ran to the kitchen and saw Becky, flanked by Mom and Dad, gaping at the dead spider in Becky’s palm, I wished I had taken my time.

  “He did it!” Becky’s pale finger pointed at me. “I know he did!”

  “Dean?” my dad said, repositioning the glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Do you have any idea how Becky’s spider was… er—”

  “Murdered!” Becky seethed.

  I reviewed the scene calmly. Dad looked at ease, Mom looked horrified, and Becky looked as though she were about to blow up. My eyes landed on the spider sitting on Becky’s palm. The holes on its back glared accusingly.

  There was no point lying. “Look,” I said. “I was trying to help.”

  “See!” Becky jumped up from the table. “I told you he did it.”

  “I didn’t want you to get bitten, so I tried to make that kill jar thing.”

  “You tried to make a kill jar?” Her free hand balled into a fist at her side. “With what? Nails? Argh.” She grabbed a small jar from the counter and shoved it in my face. A wad of cotton sat on the bottom and a disk of cardboard hovered midway, dividing the jar in half. “This is a kill jar! This! You soak the cotton, divide the jar, and the fumes kill the bug. The fumes!” She pointed at me again. “You did it on purpose. You knew I needed fifty specimens, and you made it so I can’t use this one.”

  “Why can’t you use it?” I asked. “Can’t you just pin it to the board like that?”

  Becky put one hand on her hip. “Hmmm, Ms. Curse,” she squeaked, “you have an interesting specimen. May I ask what method you used to kill it?” She shifted her hands so they were clasped innocently at her waist. “Oh, sure, Mrs. Randson, well, for most of them I used a kill jar, but for that one, I decided that a nail was the best way to go.”

  “It was a fork,” I corrected.

  “A fork!” She looked at my dad. “He stabbed my spider with a fork! Tell me that’s enough to have him committed.” She looked back at me. “You’re sick, you know that? Really sick.”

  I shrugged helplessly. “It was about to get away.” I looked at my parents. My mom’s mouth was hanging open so low I swear the spider would have fit inside easily. But my dad looked as unsurprised as before. “It’s not uncommon for kids to take out their aggression on animals or insects, Dean. But it really isn’t the best way to deal with the emotions you’re having. And it’s certainly not fair to the animal.”

  “I didn’t want to stab it,” I protested. “It was going to escape and probably kill someone. I had to stop it from getting away.” I rolled my eyes and looked up at the ceiling. “It’s just a stupid spider. Jeez.”

  “It’s nine, Dean,” my dad said, pointing to the clock. “You should get ready. We don’t want to be late for your session.”

  “I don’t need therapy, Dad. I really think it would be best if I just stayed home today.”

  Dad raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t buying it. I wondered if I should just tell him. Come clean and everything. He might believe me if I kept it straight to the point: Dad, I am having visions of people twenty-four hours before they die.

  It only took me a second to imagine that conversation and another second to imagine the scene that would follow while he chased me around the house with restraints. And I would be no good to Becky locked up in the loony bin. Honesty was the best policy most of the time, but not all the time. Not now.

  My dad cleared his throat. “I suspect you’ll find it a slightly better outlet for your feelings than forking spiders in the middle of the night, son.” I opened my mouth to explain again that it hadn’t been my plan to stab the spider, but he held up his hand. “Get ready. We’ll leave in half an hour.”

  ***

  A circle of chairs greeted Colin, Lisa, and me when we walked into the counseling room. Eric Feldman sat beside Rodney and three other kids I knew from school. Eric’s head was bowed and he had his arms folded across his chest. Rodney was doing the same. I had a pretty good idea why they were here: fake how badly they were handling the incident, and score some sympathy. It’s not like either of them had witnessed their neighbor get shot by the police or
gotten caught in some back alley fight. I wanted to kick them both in the head. The others were chattering away to each other as if they were at the mall rather than at grief therapy.

  The doctor stood up to greet us when we walked in. He was a rail of a man with thin gray hair and an unnaturally dark beard that made him look as though he actually dyed his facial hair rather than the hair on his head.

  “Dean? I’m Dr. Mickelsen.” He extended his hand. “I’m glad you decided to join us today. I’ve spoken with your dad, and he’s given me a bit of information about how you’re doing.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, shaking his hand. Nerves twisted my stomach. “Um… when did you talk to my dad?”

  If my dad had talked to him yesterday, then Dr. Mickelsen would assume I was just some poor kid who had seen more than my fair share of trauma this past week. But if Dad talked to him this morning, the doctor would know about the whole spider incident and think I was some nutcase who went around stabbing insects with forks.

  “I just talked to him this morning.” He smiled and gestured to the chairs. “Shall we begin?

  This morning? Great. He thinks I’m nuts.

  When we took our chairs, Dr. Mickelsen plopped back into his, opened up a leather-bound notepad, and then looked around expectantly.

  “Who’d like to begin?” he said. Without pausing, he turned to me. “Dean? How about you? Since this is your first session, perhaps you could introduce yourself and maybe tell us just a bit about how you’re feeling.”

  I knew everyone in the circle. Lisa and Colin were on my right. Eric Feldman and a couple of his loser followers were on my left. I didn’t really see how introducing myself was going to be helpful. I glanced at my watch. It was already after ten, and all I could think about was Becky. Was she okay? Did she catch another spider, something even more dangerous than her stupid black widow?

  Is there something worse than a black widow?

  “Dean?”

  “Oh, right, sorry.” I took a breath. “I’m Dean Curse. I… um… I know everyone in this circle, and I’m feeling a bit, well, confused. Thank you.”

  “Thank you for that introduction, Dean. I think you’ll find that confusion is a fairly common emotion for people who have experienced what you have gone through.” His gaze tracked around the group. “Anyone else?”

  Eric put up his hand.

  “Oh, brother,” Colin muttered. “Here we go.”

  “Mr. Blane,” the shrink said, pointing his mechanical pencil at Colin. “Rule number one in this circle is trust. Trust that this is a judgment-free zone, and that anything you say or do here is free from ridicule.”

  Colin rolled his eyes. “Sorry, sir.”

  “Go ahead, Eric,” Dr. Mickelsen said.

  “I don’t just feel confused. I feel really, really angry.” There were no tears, but Eric swiped the sleeve of his shirt across his face anyway. He went on for another fifteen minutes about how traumatized he was from the accident. He finished his little sob-fest with, “Why did this have to happen to one of the nicest teachers at school?”

  I didn’t mean to, but a laugh escaped my lips. It was just so pathetic the way he was going on.

  Eric turned in his seat and glared. All traces of sorrow evaporated. “Something funny, Curse?”

  “Why are you even here, Eric? You weren’t near the explosion and you didn’t even like Mrs. Farnsworthy.”

  “That’s not true!” Eric leaned forward. “She was my favorite teacher.” He turned back to the doctor. “I’m angry that something this terrible happened to her. She was so kind.”

  “Oh, please,” I mumbled to myself. I shook my head and turned back to Dr. Mickelsen. He looked at me, at Eric, and then scribbled something on the pad.

  “You bring up an excellent point, Eric.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Actually, anger is the topic I wanted us to focus on today. It’s entirely normal for people to have feelings of rage when they experience traumatic events.” He looked around the group. “Some people direct their anger toward other people, some go and vandalize property, and others…” His gaze landed on me and stopped. “Others take their rage out on animals.”

  “Animals?” Lisa looked disgusted.

  Colin glanced between me and Dr. Mickelsen and whispered, “Why’s he looking at you?”

  “Does anyone else have any problems with anger?” He quickly looked around the group and paused on Rodney for a moment before settling on me again. “Dean? How about you?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. I’m not angry.” If there was one thing I had learned from my dad, it was that counseling sessions ended early when no one shared their feelings and lasted hours when people did. I glanced at my watch. 11:23. I hated that I couldn’t be near Becky right now. If the spider wasn’t the cause of her death, I only had a few hours to help her.

  “Animals can seem easy targets,” the doctor continued. “But to hurt one, or kill one—”

  “Are you suggesting someone here killed an animal? Because they were angry?” Lisa leaned forward and scowled around the circle. “Who?”

  Eric pointed at me. “Dean’s the one who looks the angriest. I bet he did it.”

  “I’m not angry,” I growled.

  “Dean wouldn’t do that,” Lisa added. She looked at me. “Right?”

  I gave my head a quick shake.

  Eric stood up and took a couple steps across the circle toward me. “Obviously you did it. We can all see the way the doctor is looking at you.”

  “Eric,” Dr. Mickelsen said. “I think it’s best if you take your—”

  “What?” Eric added, leaning over me. “You’re so tough you have to kill little puppies?”

  “Puppies?” Lisa’s eyes widened to the size of lightbulbs.

  “I didn’t kill any puppies,” I said. I felt my face flush. “And I’m not angry.” My hands started shaking, and I felt rage building inside me. Not just toward Eric, but toward the entire situation. My sister could very well be lying in a ditch someplace bleeding to death. I needed to be with her, not here.

  “Yeah, that’s why you look so scared.” He poked me in the chest. “You know who the kindest and most gentle person I knew was?” Eric added. “Mrs. Farnsworthy.”

  “Mr. Feldman,” the doctor said sternly. “Please take your seat so we can cont—”

  “She wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Eric added. He reached out and poked me again. “You’re sick, Curse. You’re really si—”

  I don’t really remember jumping up, and I don’t really remember my fist connecting with the side of Eric’s face. But that’s exactly what happened. One second he was leaning over me, and the next he was lying on his back on the ground and I was staring down at him, stunned. The circle grew by at least a foot as everyone pushed back their chairs. Except for Colin. He stood up and started clapping as though he’d just seen the final act of an award-winning play.

  The doctor was on his feet too, but he wasn’t clapping. He glanced from Eric to me and then back to Colin. “Take your seat, Colin,” he said finally. “And Dean, I need you—”

  “I’m not angry!” I jerked my head from one person to the next. “It was a spider.” I looked at Lisa. “My sister had a black widow that escaped from the jar. That’s what I stabbed.”

  “You stabbed a spider?” Lisa asked.

  “A poisonous spider,” I said. “One that can kill.”

  “You stabbed it?” Colin dropped back into his chair and clapped his hands together, looking far too impressed. “Awesome.”

  “It was late,” I said desperately, my eyes on Lisa. “I couldn’t get it into the kill jar. And the first thing I grabbed was a fork.”

  I heard scribbling behind my shoulder and turned to see that Dr. Mickelsen had taken his seat again and was jotting down notes at blinding speed.

  “Thank you for sharing, Dean,” he said. “So if I understand you correctly,” he looked down at his notes, “you got up in the middle of the night, tried to force a spider in
to what you call a kill jar, and when it wouldn’t do as you wanted, you stabbed it with a… um…” His fingers traced the words. “Oh, yes. You stabbed it with a fork.” He looked up from his notepad. “Do I have that right?”

  I glared at Dr. Mickelsen. I was tired of trying to defend myself, and what was the point anyway? My behavior lately had been too erratic, too suspicious not to cause alarm. If I were a psychologist, I would think I was nuts too.

  I knew what I was about to do next would only convince my father that I needed to be committed. The best way to get him off my back was to make it through this session without any more incidents.

  But I could only think of my sister. I could only think of how I had failed with Mr. Utlet—I wasn’t going to fail with Becky too.

  I gave my chair a kick. It skidded out of the way, and I bolted for the door. The last thing I saw as I ran out was Dr. Mickelsen’s surprised but strangely satisfied expression as he jotted down even more notes.

  Chapter 26

  I burst through the door at full speed, raced down the corridor, and rushed out of the building. It wasn’t until I stopped to get my bearings and let my eyes adjust to the light that I realized Lisa and Colin were right behind me.

  “We figured you might need some company in whichever insane asylum they decide to send you to,” Colin said.

  “Thanks, guys,” I managed. I glanced around the mostly deserted parking lot and considered our options. We were downtown. I’d never walked home from this far away, and I couldn’t work out how long it would take us to get there if we ran—more time than we had, I figured.

  Lisa seemed to be thinking the same thing, and after a couple seconds she gestured to the left. “We run to the mall and catch a bus. We’ll be back at your place just after noon.”