widow. She knew that the female ate the male after mating which seemed only fair since there existed male spiders who actually wrapped females up and tied them down before impregnating them. A shocking variety of insect rape!
“Which spider is it that wraps up his mate?” she asked her husband.
“The thrice-banded crab spider.”
“Why does he do that to her?”
“Why not?”
Maud let it go. She had learned early on that she should never criticize a spider, but even more important, she should never touch one. One of their most loquacious marital quarrels had concerned the removal of a daddy-long-legs from their bedroom. Charles had told her repeatedly the daddy-long-legs was not a spider; that spiders had waists and daddy-long-legs did not. It took her no time at all, therefore, to dispose of one once it had foolishly entered their bedchamber. What she didn’t know was that Charles had spotted it there earlier in the day.
Before climbing into bed that night he had begun to search the floors and windows.
“Where is the daddy-long-legs?”
“It wasn’t a spider.”
“What did you do with it?”
“It didn’t have a waist.” And then, when the tension seemed unbearable, “it wouldn’t have made a web.”
“What did you do with him?”
Maud had looked heavenward, up to a ceiling like gauze. “What could it possibly matter? Besides, they bite.”
Charles had turned white with fury. “Where did you put him!?” he had shouted, moving ominously closer.
“They mate without courtship,” she had thrown out hopefully, showing off how much she had learned, even in the few short years of their marriage.
He had turned to look directly at her and in a calm, terrifying voice, he had said, “You killed him. I can’t believe it, you actually killed him.”
“Yes,” she confessed.
“Murderer!” he yelled.
Cornered, she turned on him. “You were the one… you told me they weren’t spiders. I can’t be expected to preserve every insect in the world. I demand the right to kill every bug I want to.” Prudent even in anger, she added, “Everything except spiders.”
“Spiders are
not
bugs! Neither was the daddy-long-legs, and you killed him!” He looked at her with hatred. “You wanted to kill him. You
enjoyed
killing him.” And then, after a long furious silence, “Find him!”
“Charles, he’s squashed, you wouldn’t want to…”
“FIND HIM!!”
Weeping, Maud had spent an hour picking through the trash in the kitchen looking for the crumpled body of the daddy-long-legs. She sorted through coffee grounds, orange peels, mouldy peas, broken crockery, and soggy newspapers. When, at last, she appeared in the bedroom doorway with the small bundle in her outstretched hand, Charles had simply waved it aside with a gesture of despair so complete Maud’s anger almost turned to compassion.
She occasionally surprised herself by becoming immersed in memories like this. In some she played an active role, in others her function was passive. These private dramas acted themselves out in her inner theatre just when she was certain shehad forgotten Charles altogether. Then an anecdote he had told her would, inexplicably, assert itself in her mind; the stories he had recounted about events that took place when she was not present becoming, for the moment, stronger than her own personal past, more intensely visual, until, at times, she thought of herself as the keeper of his memories rather than the keeper of his memory.
Today, she was once again at her desk in the sunroom, notebook open on the oak wood, a scrap of paper to the left of it containing the information she should have been recording. She had slipped away, however, from the activity and the pen lay discarded in the spine of the book. Her arms were crossed and her head hung slightly downwards. She was having a memory of one of Charles’ memories.
He had been walking in the Niagara Glen on a spring morning, quite early, examining the webs of
“Which spider is it that wraps up his mate?” she asked her husband.
“The thrice-banded crab spider.”
“Why does he do that to her?”
“Why not?”
Maud let it go. She had learned early on that she should never criticize a spider, but even more important, she should never touch one. One of their most loquacious marital quarrels had concerned the removal of a daddy-long-legs from their bedroom. Charles had told her repeatedly the daddy-long-legs was not a spider; that spiders had waists and daddy-long-legs did not. It took her no time at all, therefore, to dispose of one once it had foolishly entered their bedchamber. What she didn’t know was that Charles had spotted it there earlier in the day.
Before climbing into bed that night he had begun to search the floors and windows.
“Where is the daddy-long-legs?”
“It wasn’t a spider.”
“What did you do with it?”
“It didn’t have a waist.” And then, when the tension seemed unbearable, “it wouldn’t have made a web.”
“What did you do with him?”
Maud had looked heavenward, up to a ceiling like gauze. “What could it possibly matter? Besides, they bite.”
Charles had turned white with fury. “Where did you put him!?” he had shouted, moving ominously closer.
“They mate without courtship,” she had thrown out hopefully, showing off how much she had learned, even in the few short years of their marriage.
He had turned to look directly at her and in a calm, terrifying voice, he had said, “You killed him. I can’t believe it, you actually killed him.”
“Yes,” she confessed.
“Murderer!” he yelled.
Cornered, she turned on him. “You were the one… you told me they weren’t spiders. I can’t be expected to preserve every insect in the world. I demand the right to kill every bug I want to.” Prudent even in anger, she added, “Everything except spiders.”
“Spiders are
not
bugs! Neither was the daddy-long-legs, and you killed him!” He looked at her with hatred. “You wanted to kill him. You
enjoyed
killing him.” And then, after a long furious silence, “Find him!”
“Charles, he’s squashed, you wouldn’t want to…”
“FIND HIM!!”
Weeping, Maud had spent an hour picking through the trash in the kitchen looking for the crumpled body of the daddy-long-legs. She sorted through coffee grounds, orange peels, mouldy peas, broken crockery, and soggy newspapers. When, at last, she appeared in the bedroom doorway with the small bundle in her outstretched hand, Charles had simply waved it aside with a gesture of despair so complete Maud’s anger almost turned to compassion.
She occasionally surprised herself by becoming immersed in memories like this. In some she played an active role, in others her function was passive. These private dramas acted themselves out in her inner theatre just when she was certain shehad forgotten Charles altogether. Then an anecdote he had told her would, inexplicably, assert itself in her mind; the stories he had recounted about events that took place when she was not present becoming, for the moment, stronger than her own personal past, more intensely visual, until, at times, she thought of herself as the keeper of his memories rather than the keeper of his memory.
Today, she was once again at her desk in the sunroom, notebook open on the oak wood, a scrap of paper to the left of it containing the information she should have been recording. She had slipped away, however, from the activity and the pen lay discarded in the spine of the book. Her arms were crossed and her head hung slightly downwards. She was having a memory of one of Charles’ memories.
He had been walking in the Niagara Glen on a spring morning, quite early, examining the webs of
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