The Evening Spider (3 page)

Haverton, Connecticut

December 3, 2014

L
ucy had been sleeping for nearly two hours.

I'd had a shower and taken care of the dishes and done the laundry. The triple crown of naptime. So rare that one got to accomplish all three. But I had done it, and now I was staring up our narrow staircase, wondering if there was something wrong.

Lucy never slept this long in the afternoon.

But
why bite a gift horse in the mouth,
as my malaprop-prone grandmother used to say. If I crept up the stairs, they'd squeak and grunt and probably wake her.

I palmed the spherical wooden knob at the bottom of our banister and tried to identify what, exactly, I'd been longing to do the last time I'd wished Lucy would take longer naps. Wasn't there a book I'd been meaning to read? A friend I'd been meaning to call?

Surely Lucy would be waking any moment now, so perhaps it was best to simply embrace the quiet. I'd been better at that when Lucy was a newborn. Now that she was a bit older, and now that the beginning of the school year had come and gone
without me, quiet seemed a bit less tender, a bit less precious. More like something that had to be filled and endured.

When we'd learned last year that I was due in June, it had never been a question that I'd take the following school year off. The administration at Brigham Girls' Academy did not seem particularly broken up about losing me for a year. I'd been there only two years, and I believe they found me serviceable but replaceable—though they'd promised to hold my position, giving my eager substitute only a one-year contract. I wondered what she was teaching the AP girls today. Thomas Paine? No. Already too late in the year for that. The Federalists? I supposed I was glad to miss that today.

I slipped my phone out of my pocket and looked at the time. It had been more than two hours now. And what of that
thunk
I'd heard in the night as I lifted Lucy out of the crib? A hard hit on the head. Shaken baby.
Don't let the baby sleep after a bump on the head.
I'd seen it all over the mom forums online. My heart jumped, and I started up the stairs. How had I forgotten that?

I took the final steps two at a time, leaping toward Lucy's room, stretching my hand toward her door.

The door felt heavy for a moment—as if there was someone behind it, pushing it in the opposite direction. The sensation sent a chill down my arm and through my fingers. I tried to grip the doorknob tighter, but my hand felt paralyzed.

Taking my hand off the knob, I pressed the door with my shoulder. I wasn't sure if it was me or the door that grunted as it swung open, popping abruptly against the naked metal doorstop. We'd taken the rubber parts of the doorstop off before Lucy was born because they were a choking hazard. Why not childproof what you can, when you can?

Lucy sighed in response to the noise. I caught my breath and then held it. Her arms were flung out in both directions—as if she were making snow angels against the fitted white sheet.

I stared at Lucy's turned head, admiring the clockwise swirl of her delicate blond-brown hair. Lighter than mine, but darker than her dad's. The friendly woman who used to sit near me at the Mommies and Babies group at the library—the tall one named Sara, with the completely bald baby girl—had complimented its color.

This was the first week I'd skipped the group since the summer. I'd grown bored of it—all of us nursing and sipping cold decafs and pretending we weren't already secretly judging each other. I'd thought I'd make a few friends among the other mothers there, but it hadn't happened. Sara had been nice, but we hadn't really clicked. I didn't think I'd go again.

I
did
need to think of a way to get out more. Maybe I should at least sign up for a moms and babies swimming class. Something like that. Was Lucy old enough for that? Even if she was, I'd have to order a one-piece bathing suit for sure. My stomach had not fared well during the pregnancy. My navel, now misshapen and framed with wrinkles, felt more like a vile and private orifice than anything deserving of a cute label like “belly button.”

For a week or so I'd attempted calling it “the dowager countess,” to remind myself that something wrinkled could still be cool and dignified, but I didn't manage to convince myself. Nor did I particularly wish to become the sort of person who named her body parts.

Lucy turned her face toward me but didn't open her eyes. I knelt down on the floor next to the crib, wincing as the floorboards creaked.

The mark on her face had more definition now, circling the outside of her nose and the inner part of her right cheekbone. It also appeared to be turning purple. Maybe it was just the dull light of her room. I had lowered her shades for naptime.

Lucy's water sounds were playing on repeat. Sitting cross-legged now on her floor with nothing better to do, I had a chance to see if I was correct about the “waves” track. When it came around, I closed my eyes and listened carefully. The waves were thunderous on their way in but hissed softly on their way out.
Ssssssss.
Sometimes more like
swish swish.
Maybe, when one was sleepy, one wanted to hear
shhhhh.
So that was how I'd heard it through the monitor the previous night.

As I waited for Lucy to wake up, I listened to all four tracks a couple of times and rated them from my first to least favorite: rain storm, babbling brook, ocean waves, waterfall. Or maybe babbling brook first. But waterfall was definitely last.

Northampton Lunatic Hospital

Northampton, Massachusetts

December 20, 1885

M
y point, Harry, is that I perhaps appreciate the world's tiny mechanisms better than I do the more significant hows and whys.

The why of our Lord taking Father from us when he did, for sad example.

When Father died, a fog settled over all of us. It seemed, after some months, that it lifted for you and Clara and even Mother. Not for me, though. Do you remember? You all mourned so efficiently, so neatly—at least, compared to me. You all simply turned back to your everyday affairs. I, however, did not have everyday affairs as such. I was between one stage and another. No school as you had. No husband as Clara had. My days were occupied cooking and cleaning for Mother, and occasionally practicing the piano. Of course, I read whenever Mother allowed. My selections most often came from Father's library—usually about plants and anatomy and microscopy. Stories never appealed to me. At least not made-up ones.

How I dragged about the house for months. I was Mother's rag doll. I knew that our circumstances required me to be
especially dutiful. Yet I could not rouse myself beyond the minimal chores and affections.

Mother did, however, find me most useful in her Saturday baking. Baking was, of all the chores, the most like Father's science, with its measurements and proportions and chemical reactions. I took notes on the results and improved the product each week. It was a childish endeavor, but it kept me earnestly occupied.

My condition improved by small degrees. Still, home was never the same, was it? Without Father's good cheer and Father's curiosities? That is not to say Mother did not provide us with as much comfort as she was able. Frankly, though, I missed the way Father indulged me. Specifically, the way he would talk of my future, my education. All of that talk died with him.

When he was alive, Father spoke highly of a women's college in Massachusetts that he thought would be suitable for me. Now that we were being educated on Uncle John's generosity, however, there was little possibility of anything so frivolous. We were lucky that your plans for Yale were so fully realized.

I digress. I bring up the changed atmosphere of home by way of explanation. You never did understand why I was so agreeable to Matthew's courtship, and so eager to accept his proposal. You hinted I ought to wait for someone closer in age, someone more similar in disposition.

My disposition would have been a tricky match, though, don't you think? And Matthew had such an air of tidy optimism, did he not?

Of
course
you know what that means, Harry. Don't be silly.

Haven't I ever told you about the first time he brought me a gift? It was perhaps his third call to the house, and he gave me a tiny figurine of a kitten. I have never much liked kittens, but I was nonetheless flattered that Matthew had so quickly elevated our courtship to that level.

To accompany the gift, Matthew had a charming story of how it came into his possession.

“I was on my way to the train in Boston when I got drawn into this queer little shop not far from the station.”

“Is it pleasing to you, traveling by train?” I asked. “My father didn't care much for it, but I have never tried it.”

“I've done it so much in recent years, I hardly think about it.”

I did not know how to reply. I looked away because I found myself, as often, inappropriately transfixed by the curious part in his hair, so wide and so far to one side. I wondered if, were we ever married, it would be impertinent to suggest moving it a half-inch back toward the middle.

“When you first started, then, did you enjoy it?” I inquired. “Or did you find it very jarring, very noisy, the first time or two?”

“Not so very much,” Matthew answered before scooting forward in his chair, balancing himself quite eagerly at its very edge. “Now, about this kitten. The man had wares from all over the world. I believe this little treasure was from China. So entranced was I by it that I forgot my train for some time. Perhaps I'd have stood there looking at it for some time more had the train not blasted its horn. So startled was I that I dropped the little creature. The shopkeeper was incensed and rushed at me. When I bent to pick it up, I saw, to my astonishment, that it had survived the fall intact! Not a scratch. Now my time for making my selections was clearly over. And this cat had proven itself to be a very special find indeed. I
decided he was fated for me. I have had him for a year or two now, but I had always intended him to be a gift for someone.”

The tiny figurine was pink. I considered asking him, to be witty, if cats were pink in China. I bit my tongue, however, for fear of appearing ungrateful.

“Eight lives left on him,” I said. “Or perhaps fewer, for all we know.”

What's that, Harry? Pardon me. Was I drifting for a moment? The nurses tell me I do that often—even in the middle of our conversations, such as they are. Or in the sewing room, when my progress has stalled and my quota of curtains or shirts is not filled. They think me mad, I suppose. Silly me! Why would they think me anything else? In my defense, I believe there is something about this place that enlivens one's memory. On some days, as I fall asleep to white walls and other women's groans and snores, all I can remember of my day—aside from the consoling light of the greenhouse—is the experience of remembering something else.

Ah, but returning to Matthew—all other things aside, waiting for someone closer in age would mean waiting for years upon years. That's what I told you, wasn't it? I was only twenty. All the young men my age had to finish their schooling and establish themselves. Was I to wait that long, sweeping the kitchen floor in the afternoons, stirring Mother's tiresome pots of peas, pulling endless—though perfected—cider loaves from that oppressive oven?

Matthew was already a lawyer. He already had a house to his name. Yes, the house was in Haverton—a few miles away from our New Haven home, and from Mother. But that wouldn't be
such a bad thing, would it? A new place? I would be closer to Clara. And my old friend Louise was in Haverton, caring for her aunt Dorothy. I would not be so terribly lonely then.

Things would surely be different if I was the woman of the house? With Matthew's means, I'd even have a maid to assist me. There would be time for reading and explorations. There would be trips on mighty, bellowing trains.

Haverton, Connecticut

December 4, 2014

C
had was going to be home late, so it was a good time to catch up on his least favorite entertainments. He didn't understand my taste for stand-up and late-night comedy. I clicked on a old Louis C.K. special, pulled the laptop up close to my pillow, and pulled up the duvet.

CLING!

I heard the sound of something small and metallic falling out of the bed and onto our wood floor. Probably a penny. Chad brought the occasional penny roll to bed—to examine under a reading lamp while I dozed off early. Sometimes I'd peer over to his side of the bed and feel a twinge of guilt at what my postpartum period had done to him. It had turned him into a nerd.

But it was payback, in a way. Chad didn't know that my stand-up habit started in the second year of our marriage. That was the year that his dog Bartleby—who had predated me by several years—had to be put down. Then Chad's Crohn's—mild up till that point—flared up worse than it ever had. Chad grew frighteningly thin and had to go to the hospital for an IV a couple of times, then take a few weeks off from his job. I'd make him a special gluten-free, dairy-free dinner every night, then
sit up with him, correcting papers while we watched his sci-fi shows. When that was all over, I'd tune in to my Conan or my Jimmy or whoever else was available. Or if the timing was off, I'd get on YouTube and watch old clips of George Carlin, Chris Rock, or Bill Hicks. Sometimes till two
A
.
M
. Then I'd get up at five-thirty in the morning to go teach—all yawns and private giggles.

That was five years ago. But to this day, I dreaded our cat Monty ever getting sick. I watched his eating habits with great care. I took him to the vet religiously. Maybe the timing of Bartleby's death and Chad's flare-up was partially coincidental. There was a lot of stress involved in Chad's job—marketing consultation—that never seemed to affect him at all. But it was all a bloodless sort of stress—petty client needs and tedious business travel. It made perfect sense that Chad's weak spot was for cute, furry little animals.

Now Louis C.K. was talking about his little daughter and her idea of “secrets.” I'd seen it several times before, of course, but I heard it differently now that I had Lucy. Lucy would tell me secrets someday. And then someday, she wouldn't. My eyelids started to droop, and Louis C.K.'s words started to lose their meaning, dissolving into the beginning of a dream about a squirrel in a bloated diaper. I couldn't get the squirrel to sit still to change it, and the diaper was way too big.

When a cry awoke me, the comedy was still playing, but the clock at the corner of the computer said 9:12. I nestled my head in my pillow and waited a moment. Occasionally she got herself back to sleep when she awoke so early in the night. Very occasionally, but it was possible. There was a silence, and I allowed myself to drift off a bit.

After what felt like a minute or two, there was another cry, and then a
shhhhh.

Right. Chad
had
said he'd be getting in around nine.

He must've just come in the door and heard Lucy crying. He'd gone straight to her room to tend to her—before even coming to me.

Shhhhh,
he whispered.

I closed my eyes again. But I hadn't heard the car in the driveway at all. Nor had I heard the side door open.

Shhhhh.

My eyes snapped open. I sprang up and staggered into the hallway. When I reached Lucy's door, I grabbed the doorknob and pushed.

The door felt heavy.

I pushed harder. There was a stickiness to the doorframe.

Turning the knob, I put my full weight against the door and it flew open with an
OOOOOAAHHHHR
sound.

I rushed to Lucy's crib but paused before picking her up. I needed to lift her out carefully this time. In my hesitation, I noticed that she had suddenly stopped crying. Her eyes were wide open, and she was staring at me with a half smile on her face.

“Come here, my little night owl,” I whispered, trying to control the wobbling sensation in my mouth.

Once Lucy was nestled against my chest, I whispered in her ear, “Who? Who? Who?”

Lucy giggled. I was about to congratulate myself for my spontaneous inventiveness, but I noticed that Lucy wasn't looking at me at all. Her eyes were fixed on the doorway.

Could it have been the sound of the door that had stopped her crying? Lucy had only laughed a few times in her life so far,
and each time it had been at something enigmatically unfunny from an adult perspective: the fluttering of a plastic bag to the floor, the sound of Chad flipping through a pile of bills, the sudden appearance of George Stephanopoulos on television.

“What is it, honey?” I said. “The door?”

I carried Lucy to the door and gently pushed it halfway closed and then open again.

OOOOOAAHHHHR.
I glanced at Lucy. She seemed interested, but not particularly amused.

I opened the door again, wider this time.

OOOOOAAHHHHR-eeee.

Lucy cracked a smile at the squeaky finish.

I did it again. And again. Still no laugh.

OOOOOAAHHHHR-eeee.

Lucy nestled her head into my chest and closed her eyes.

I opened and closed the door again. And again. It didn't sound quite right. Something about that sound was just not at all right for a baby girl's room.

OOOOOAAHHHHR-eeee.

And again and again. Some illogical part of me thought that if I opened and closed it enough times, the sound would either wear itself out or morph into a slightly different—if not a slightly more pleasant—sound.

OOOOOAAHHHHR-eeee. OOOOOAAHHHHR-eeee.

“What're you two up to?”

I jumped. Chad was at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at me.

“Oh. When did you get home?”

“Just now. You guys are up late.”

“Lucy likes the door sound.”

“Really,” said Chad, tiptoeing up the stairs to meet me.

I looked down at Lucy, who was dozing on my arm. Her mouth was open, her lower lip mushed against my flannel pajamas. Chad took my arms in his so we were both cradling Lucy at the same time.

“Wow,” he said, studying Lucy's face. “That bruise looks kinda nasty.”

I stared at Lucy's face. He was right. It had turned a blue-purple. It looked bigger than it had earlier in the day—though perhaps it was just its two-toned quality that made it seem so.

“Huh. I guess we need to be more careful,” he said, shrugging. “Do we even know how she got that?”

I was pretty sure I knew
when
she'd gotten it. The first night I'd heard the shushing sound over the monitor. But
how
—I wasn't so sure of that. Had it been when I lifted her out of the crib so hastily? Or had the bump happened before I arrived? And was that why she'd been crying in the first place? And what was this
we
Chad was using, when he couldn't have meant anything but
you
?

“No,” I murmured. “No, we don't.”