Marvin and the Moths

by Jonathan Follett

  And then he was on his back, and he was moving, and he heard a voice call out, “It smells like a burnt commode in there.”

  Lee opened his eyes and saw an EMT talking with a weary firefighter. They lifted his wheeled stretcher up into the back of an ambulance. “Probably cherry bombs in the toilet again,” the firefighter said, then walked off to deal with the chaos of flashing lights and panicked people outside in the night.

  “What a disappointment,” Lee said. He turned his head sideways and saw Marvin sitting next to him, wrapped in a thick blanket.

  “Well, it’s good to have you back, anyway,” Marvin said, and smiled.

  A dribbling trail of green goo marked a long and staggering path through the night, leading from the middle school toward the waterfront. The spider, nearly blind, kept banging into the walls of warehouses and the sides of steel cargo containers, muttering to himself all the while.

  “… but mark my words, you pathetic backwater of a town—I will survive this, and I will have my revenge! You will taste my venom, and I will leave you as nothing but withered husks!” He paused to cough, and looked down in alarm at the large pool of green fluid that was forming beneath him. “Oh, that’s not good.” He used two of his remaining limbs to hold together his wounded abdomen, and marched ahead on four legs. “Yes.” He continued his rant. “Mark my words! My vengeance shall be swift and terrible!” He sighed, dropping his dramatic air for a moment. “Man, I’m tired. Where’s that dockyard already?”

  In time, the spider found himself at the water’s edge. Stacks of crates and cargo containers towered about him on either side, and several cranes, used for unloading freight, loomed overhead. In the water, at the edge of the dock, floated a lone boat.

  “Aha! A vessel!” the spider cried in relief. “If the river were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears; if the wind were down, I could drive the boat with my sighs. Time to ditch this stupid town.” He started toward the gangplank.

  “Hey, buddy,” a voice called out coolly from the shadows.

  “Hark!” the spider said, whirling about to face the interloper. “Who interrupts my exit grand, as I take to sea and quit the land?”

  “Nice doggerel,” the voice replied. “Been hitting the books pretty hard, haven’t you?” A tall figure, wearing a long coat and an old-fashioned fedora, stepped into the dim light. It regarded the disfigured body of the spider, from broken limbs to scorched fur, with amusement. “I guess you’re having a bad hair day, huh? It looks like the gal at the beauty parlor set the curling irons to ‘stun.’” He paused to sniff the air. “And the smell—kind of a mix of burning tires and porta-potty, wouldn’t you say?”

  The mysterious figure stood with his hands in the pockets of his trench coat. Two additional arms casually emerged from the open front of the coat and held a cigar and lighter up to his shadowed face. “You don’t mind if I light up a little air freshener, do you? Of course you don’t.” He lit the cigar.

  The spider was shaking in rage at all the indignities being hurled at him. “You have sealed your own doom, oh fedoraed one,” the spider said. “You know not whom you have insulted!”

  “Oh, I know exactly what you are,” the figure said. He put his additional arms back inside his coat and took a long pull on his lighted cigar. “The question is, do you?”

  “Of course I do,” said the spider. “I am Caliban—mutant offspring of a Pork Punch taste test gone awry, and devoted disciple of the immortal Bard.” Then he pulled himself up straighter, recalling his earlier dignity. “I am a superintelligent poetic killing machine. I am death on the wind.” At this declaration, he bellowed and reared up before the figure in the trench coat, swinging two of his limbs into striking position and exposing his glistening fangs.

  The figure shook his head from side to side, unimpressed by the spider’s display. “Wrong,” he said. “I’ll tell you what you are. You’re a liability. You’re evidence that links back to PLI. And it’s time to cut the cord.”

  He paused, clearly waiting for something to happen.

  “I said, it’s time to cut the cord,” the figure repeated loudly. Again he paused, then turned to look to his left. “Cut the cord, dimwit!”

  A smaller figure poked its head out from the shadows. “Sorry, boss—I don’t have any fingers.”

  “Give me that,” said the tall figure, grabbing a long, taut rope and slicing it in two with a sudden, fast motion.

  The spider heard the furious squealing of a pulley wheel overhead, and looked up just in time to see a giant wooden shipping crate come crashing down upon him.

  The tall figure let out a long sigh and stepped forward to examine his work. He pulled off his fedora, revealing the angular, alien features of a praying mantis. He pointed to the side of the crate, where the words “Contents: Boots” were stenciled across the wood.

  “Stomped him, eh?” he said to his short companion. “Nice touch. That’s poetic justice, right there.”

  His companion stepped fully into the light, revealing the form of a squat, three-foot-tall cockroach. “Thanks, boss.”

  The mantis pulled a mobile phone from its coat and dialed a number. “Yeah, you know that thing you wanted me to take care of?” he said to the listener on the other end of the call. “No, no, the other thing. The BIG thing. That thing with the legs and all the slaughter … right. Well I made the ‘delivery,’ if you know what I mean. And it killed him. What? No. I’m telling you I dropped a giant crate on top of his head. Yeah. Okay. Good-bye.”

  He hung up and stowed the phone away again. “Come on, Francis,” he said to his sidekick. “Let’s go get a nice hot cup of soup.”

  “Yeah, I’m starving,” the roach said.

  As the two left the pier, a white van marked with the words “Big Pest Exterminators” pulled up beside the smashed crate. Men in yellow hazmat suits climbed out, pulling long vacuum hoses behind them, and immediately got to work. By morning, there’d be no sign left of any spider, superintelligent or otherwise.

  In most stories, something good happens to everyone at the end. This story is no exception.

  The emergency room doctor who treated Lee’s injuries after the dance told Lee’s grandmother that, judging by the condition of the boy’s skin and the fact that he had eaten so much Pork Loaf that evening, Lee might be allergic to something in the processed-meat product and should probably avoid it. Which meant that, once he recovered and all the Pork Loaf worked its way out of his system, Lee no longer smelled. So that was good. Unfortunately, that didn’t change the fact that no one at school liked him. Still, Lee was content in the knowledge that he had saved the lives of Marvin and Fatima, and probably the rest of Butcherville—even if hardly anyone knew it. And as his father had told him—had that been his father? It all seemed so hazy now—while it mattered that he had friends, who those friends were mattered more.

  Fatima, seemingly caught red-handed—and blue-faced—received a week of in-school suspension. Everyone accused her of pulling the fire alarm in order to spoil Stevie and Amber’s moment as Harvest King and Queen. In addition to her suspension, Fatima was required to speak with the school counselor once a week in order to deal with her “issues.” As it turned out, this wasn’t all bad. She got a lot of things off her chest, and realized that her life would be less stressful and she would be happier if she didn’t try to control everything that went on around her. Fatima also winnowed her collection of portable devices down to a single all-in-one smartphone, so despite the fact that her knee brace was now larger and more menacing than ever, she was able to walk down the hall looking like a normal kid, rather than the sample counter at an electronics store.

  Little Stevie Upton basked in the afterglow of his Harvest coronation. Even though he had knocked down a dozen people while fleeing the school, he was able to spin it afterward to sound like he was, in fact, a hero, blazing a trail amid the confusion so that others might follow him to safety. He became more popular than ever. This just goes to show that go
od things happen to bad people, and good things happen to good people, and good things happen to people who are not particularly good or bad.

  As for Marvin, in spite of everything that had happened to him, he went home to find he was still living in the attic.

  That night, after the dance, Marvin changed out of his wet clothes and into some flannel pajamas. He tried to straighten up his room, and started by undoing the damage to his bed and dresser that the moths had caused.

  As he was making his bed, he heard a knock at the door. “Marvin? Sweetie?” his mom called, opening the door. “Finally dried off? I know it can get cold up here, so I wanted to make sure you didn’t catch a chill.” She handed him a thick wool blanket. “I figured you could use an extra blanket.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Marvin said. He spread the blanket out on his bed, and got under the covers. His mom sat down on the edge of his mattress.

  “I know it probably hasn’t been easy for you these past few months,” she said. “A new baby in the house, having to give up your room—and all while starting middle school.” Marvin didn’t say anything.

  “How is school?” she asked. “Things are going okay there?”

  Marvin shrugged. “Apart from the explosions, you mean?”

  His mom laughed. “It does feel that way sometimes, doesn’t it?” she said. “Well, listen. I just want you to know that you’re still an important part of this family, even if you’re all the way up here. You’re still under our roof. And you can come to your father or me for anything. We’re always here for you.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Marvin said. She leaned over and gave him a hug. Just then, Baby Harry began to wail downstairs. Marvin’s mom sighed, and stood up to go.

  “We should really get your father to do something about these bare walls and rafters,” she said, looking around at the attic. “Some drywall, some paint—”

  “Some insulation,” Marvin said.

  “Exactly,” his mom said, nodding. “I’ll have him get to work on it tomorrow.” She headed out the door. “Good night, sweetie,” she said.

  “Good night, Mom.”

  “And, honey,” she said as she was closing the door, “you should really try to keep your room a little neater. It looks like a war zone in here.”

  Marvin settled back against his pillows and tried to relax. The sound of Baby Harry’s crying gradually subsided downstairs. Marvin could tell his mom had been feeling guilty for paying so little attention to him these past few weeks, but he hadn’t much felt like talking. He had just survived the single most stressful evening of his life—one that made even his first day of school seem harmless—and he was exhausted. And even if he wanted to, he couldn’t begin to figure out how to talk to his mom about the moths, the spider, or Lee and his strange power.

  Just then, he heard some muffled voices nearby and noticed that his dresser, which he had reassembled and shoved up against the wall to hide the giant hole from his mom, had started quivering. Finally, with a loud grunt and a cry of “Heave!” the dresser toppled over and Abraham climbed through the hole in the wall.

  “Some idiot covered up this opening with a dresser,” said Abraham, dusting some loose bits of wood and plaster from his furry body. “Don’t you people over here know that you can’t block the egress? It’s a fire hazard.”

  Aristotle clambered out next. He was wrapped head to toe in gauze bandages, and reeked of scorched hair and various medicinal unguents. He stepped forward unsteadily and bumped into Abraham.

  “Hey, watch it!” Abraham said. “Geez, you look and smell like a poorly embalmed mummy,” he said to Aristotle.

  “I’m sorry,” the tall moth said, adjusting the bandages around his head. “The gauze keeps slipping down over my eyes. Plus, I’ve been completely coated in benzocaine, so I’m afraid I don’t have a sense of touch at the moment.”

  Ahab emerged last and waved sheepishly to Marvin.

  “How’s the wing?” Marvin asked.

  Ahab flexed his damaged right wing. The hole in it had been hastily patched with duct tape. “Good as new,” he said.

  “Well,” Abraham said, “before we move on to bigger and better things, I’d just like to tell you that this establishment you run is subpar. Additionally, here.” He threw a cardboard box to the floor. “Some of your hideous junk that we accidentally took when we moved out. I can’t stand the sight of it. Especially since I now only have one eye. And, might I add, I still await your APOLOGY for gross slander and wrongful accusations against my person for Elephant Vampirosity in the third degree.”

  Aristotle smacked the short moth in the back of the head, causing Abraham to grunt in protest and adjust the patch that now covered his left compound eye.

  “Did you just ask me to apologize to you in the middle of your apology for stealing my stuff?” Marvin asked.

  “He is the M.C. Escher of logic,” Aristotle said.

  “Be that as it may,” Abraham said, clearing his throat loudly, “it has been brought to my attention by others who were there that you are partially responsible for our survival. Therefore, it is my privilege—and I use the term loosely—to bestow upon you this, our highest honor, with liberty and justice for all.” Abraham leaned over and draped a medal around Marvin’s neck.

  Marvin lifted the medal and examined it. “Third place in the 2010 Recycolympics?” he asked.

  “No, no, no,” Ahab said, reaching out to turn the medal over. “The other side.”

  On the reverse, the moths had crudely carved the words “GOOD JOB” into the copper-colored plastic disc.

  “It is an award for exceptional bravery under fire,” Aristotle said.

  “Did you just find this in one of the attics?” Marvin asked.

  “‘Find’ is an interesting word …” Aristotle said, trailing off into silence.

  “Okay,” Abraham said at last. “I know we’ve been evicted from the premises. Don’t think that’s gone unnoticed. Come on, boys. We missed the ball game tonight while we were saving someone’s soggy little hide at the school gym, but maybe we can still catch the highlights.” He and the other moths turned to go.

  Marvin sighed. “Wait,” he called out. The moths stopped and turned back a little too quickly. They stared at him expectantly.

  Marvin thought for a moment. Yes, they were insulting. They were selfish. They were hideous-looking. But they had come to the rescue. And their being around did make the attic a less lonely place.

  “You guys can stay and hang out for a little bit, if you want,” Marvin said. “I don’t have a TV, though.”

  “No problem!” Abraham said. The three moths disappeared quickly through the hole in the wall, and reemerged with various-size TV sets in their various-size arms. They quickly reconnected the stolen cable and tuned the sets to different stations to watch the baseball highlights on the late news shows.

  “Make yourselves at home,” Marvin said as the moths sprawled about the room. Ahab settled himself at the foot of Marvin’s bed.

  “You gonna eat that?” the giant said, eyeing Marvin’s new blanket and smacking his mandibles hungrily. Marvin thought for a moment, then reached over to his desk for a pair of scissors. He cut the blanket in half down the middle, giving a piece to the delighted moth.

  Marvin curled up in bed, bathed in the bluish glow of sports replays and surrounded by the sounds of muttering moths and the soggy chewing of wool fibers. And as he drifted off to sleep in his half blanket, Marvin realized that friendship came in many shapes and sizes. Some friends were a little smelly. Some friends were a little bossy. And some friends had more arms than usual. They might be strange, but they were still friends. And that would just have to do.

  Stephen Upton Sr. concluded the PLI annual shareholders meeting on a high note. “Thanks to our retooled online distribution-tracking system, we’ve seen a five percent growth in orders and a corresponding drop in the costs of shipping and fulfillment.” He paused in his speech, sneaking a glance at his watch as the applause
in the boardroom swelled and then died down. “And I’d like to offer a special tip of the hat to our science team, which has increased the nutritional quality of Pork Loaf by one point five percent during the past fiscal year, well ahead of our projections and far in advance of government guidelines. I think we can all agree, the future looks bright indeed for Pork Loaf International.” Again, the boardroom erupted into applause, and Stephen adjourned the meeting, exiting the room quickly by way of a small door at the rear.

  He took the freight elevator down to the basement garage, where a large black Humvee waited. He climbed in, and the driver headed out of the building and off the carefully manicured grounds of the PLI corporate campus.

  As the sun sank toward the western horizon, the Humvee wound its way through rolling hills and bare autumn trees, at last pulling up to the drive of the Butcherville Country Club. A guard opened the gates and waved it through, and the vehicle drove up to the front steps of the clubhouse just as the sun was setting behind the eighteenth hole of the golf course.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” said the valet as he opened the door. “Meeting someone for cocktails?”

  “Something like that,” Stephen Upton said, and he grabbed his briefcase and strode up the steps, walking across the oak-paneled lobby to an elevator. Once the doors closed, he removed from his pocket a large brass key shaped like an elephant’s head, then inserted its trunk into a keyhole on the control panel and twisted. A soft chime rang out, and the elevator began descending. It passed the billiards room. It passed the locker rooms. It passed the basement utility rooms and kept going, even though there were no more floors marked on the display. At last, the elevator stopped, and the doors opened onto a narrow, dimly lit hallway. Stephen walked down the corridor, through a nondescript door, and into a blacked-out room. He was expected.