It was either spend my anniversary without my husband, or accompany him to Port Allegheny for one of his weekend farming trips. This year, to commemorate our seventeenth year of married life, we left the kids at home with my mother in-law and planned to stay in the small house on the property which had been vacant since the fall. My husband had already taken up a mattress and box-spring on his last trip to make it seem more inviting. He explained I could take my laptop along and write, and he could finish plowing. Farming the following weekend would be out of the question because of Mother's Day, and his leaving would break our tradition of meeting his mom and sister's family for a lunch midway between our state and theirs. Three upset mothers would be inevitably worse than dealing with one upset wife, and it wasn't like this was one of those big, round-numbered anniversaries that came with grand expectations.
I didn't have to go. He didn't have to stay. That much we made clear to each other from the get go. But the more I thought about how many times he'd sat through my plays, or proofed one of my four hundred page manuscripts in a twenty-four hour period, I thought I should at least be as good a sport. After all, he worked all week in New York City and generally took this six hour drive solo on Friday nights after work, occasionally even after my son's baseball games, arriving at the farm sometime between one and two a.m. I always knew he was a saint, which made me feel even worse doing my rain-dance once I had agreed to go. Often I agreed to challenges feeling certain God would surely get me out of them.
To my inexplicable shock, the weather forecast was good. I consoled myself knowing my husband didn't want to drive out on Friday night. Instead, we were leaving Friday morning so we could (thank you again, God) have an extra full day.
By six a.m. we each had a coffee and muffin. Cows came into view around seven-thirty. By nine a.m., we had a second coffee, and a Schmuffin Sandwich from Sheets, getting two more muffins to go. I had already eaten more than I usually eat before 3 p.m, more carbs than I eat in an entire week. This was roughing it for sure.
The ride was remarkably pleasant. It was amazing how relaxing driving seemed once we were out of our major metropolitan area and away from our teenage kids. We had the longest uninterrupted conversation since our honeymoon, discussing each of our three kids in no particular order, spouting philosophies that didn't work, comparing their upbringing to our own, and deciding we would do well to provide for ourselves until death, just to be safe.
I packed well, light on the clothes, heavy on the other supplies. I had my work covered with a laptop, printer, my manuscript, folding table, chairs, a notebook, pens, pencils, a coffee pot, and coffee. I had essentials like sheets, towels, a hand towel, shower curtain and hooks, paper towels, toilet cleaner, all purpose cleaner, trash bags, phone charger, and a novel, in case I hit a dry spot.
Finally, as the two lane highway merged into one, and the gravel gave way to dirt roads, the farm appeared. I was excited to see the red barn again, the trees, the house, horses, and pole barn, and some neighboring houses. I was undoubtedly out of my element here, and the more humans I was aware of, the more secure I felt.
The house hadn't been lived in for a while, so I expected a little bit of a musty odor. The dead bugs were another story. My husband noted the expression on my face, and quickly ran off to get a stick vacuum out of a shed. I was busily running the kitchen sink water when I realized I wasn't alone. A large wasp was crawling slowly up the door to the basement. I admit my first thought was to run, but I reminded myself I was after all in the wild, and the insect wasn't really flying. I cursed myself for not packing hair spray. I was honestly trying to get into the spirit of "roughing it" and couldn't imagine why I would need to keep my hair in one position. I forgot that hair spray was more important to me than a first aid kit, because one shot would render a bug's wings too stiff to fly, and I could then place an upside-down glass upon it, until my husband came in from the field and removed the stiffened body. Guess what, no glasses either—only a paper cup which would amplify the wicked buzz, and drive me out of my skin.
I watched from the kitchen focused only on that one spot, watching the bug walk up and down the trim as if patrolling. I was never a jumper and screamer. I preferred to feign paralysis, play dead if necessary, and tip toe very slowly toward the nearest exit. I tried to talk myself through my panic. The predator was walking slowly. Probably, it was wounded. Possibly, it came in the front door. My husband always said they followed you inside—not that I ever believed him. One sighting in my home and I phoned the Chem-tech guy, regardless of how random the event seemed, or how asphyxiating the solution.
I looked at my car thinking I could clearly make a run for it if I needed to, except, there was a cat sitting in front of my door. A big, dark, brown, hairy, fat, biker of a cat, and if there was one thing I felt less comfortable with than bees, it was cats, which in my nightmares become vampires and sucked my blood, not my breath. So I wondered if my husband was making the vacuum from scratch, because it seemed like forever since I'd last seen him, and just then I noticed the congregation of bees in the sink, which only made me look at the cellar doorway again, where I could confirm, yes, they were in addition to the original one that so obviously did not follow us in the door. Now I was thinking, cat versus bees, and there was no contest, because it was a numbers' game and thus far, I didn't possess the ability to out-fly them.
Outside, I dashed past the cat, not making eye contact. I treated it like the threats I'd encountered in the Port Authority. I waited politely while my husband finished his conversation with a neighbor, trying very hard not to let the word hotel spring forth from my lips. He caught my look of distress and excused himself, apologizing for his delay. We walked close together to the shed, and on the way I casually asked for bug spray, explaining that we had an infestation. I knew he wanted to roll his eyes about as much as I wanted to say hotel, so we were even. Then I told him about the cat, and he told me to just to walk past it. I agreed, but when I looked for it using my peripheral vision, I couldn't find it. It was now inside our car, walking on our yet unpacked belongings, probably looking to pick off a twenty out of my husband's wallet. So this next grand announcement from me did produce the eye roll and the word hotel nearly simultaneously. We'd always had good rhythm.
My husband chased the cat out of the car. I stood still, confused and wondering whether I should go into the house knowing he's going to war with the bees, or stay outside with the cat who was ticked because I ratted him out. This time I chose to go inside, because I had a competent defender holding two cans of poison. Plus, I needed to point out the bee that was still undoubtedly crawling up and down the doorway. He sprayed the sink easily enough, sprayed around the doorway, and then he asked if I noticed where they might be coming from. By now, I was talking non-stop in one of those Houston-we-have-a-problem tones, yes, there were a number on the window, some on the floor, hotel, hotel, hotel, kitchen counter—but God bless America, none in the bathroom where I was sure I would hide at the first sign of retaliation. As he sprayed and vacuumed the dead bodies, I pointed to the nest outside the right hand corner of the window, close to where I'd coincidentally placed my folding table and computer. He nodded, picked up the twenty-foot spray, and headed for the door, while I reminded him in my loudest Minnie Mouse voice of the can's advisory never to spray during the day! But of course, he was going to do exactly that--what country man wouldn't?
I couldn't watch. I was a mixture of panic, horror, and adrenaline. If they attacked him, where was the nearest hospital? Did 911 work everywhere? Did my cell have a signal? If he was attacked, do I spray him with the other can which at least was approved for indoor use with the doors and windows wide open? Where was the neighbor now? Oh my God, where was the cat? I had been in the country less than twenty minutes, and I was already having chest pains.
My husband returned looking victorious. When I realized he wasn't being tracked by an air brigade, I was ecstatic. I could hear my pinched voice telling him the infestation of Ladybugs I just found certainly meant good luck. I was actually flicking them off my workspace, making wishes. Before leaving me to begin his field work, he plugged in an XM portable satellite radio, so could I listen to the soothing voice of Jonathan Schwartz who I recalled from WNEW back when I was young and safe in New Jersey. It immediately calmed me down. I popped the top on my computer, and barely flinched as the ladybugs smashed themselves against the toxic window. Hours passed as I busily edited. I rose to make a pot of coffee, and as I looked at the cat rolling on his back at my doorstep, I comforted myself knowing at least my chances of encountering field mice indoors today were pretty slim.
L. A. Rentschler, author of the newly released novel Mother (amazon.com). Author of Jitters which was produced as a Lifetime Original Movie. Playwright, best known for Deathbed. IWWG. Dramatist Guild of America. http://www.larentschler.com Write to her: linda@larentschler.com |
Atom Feed (xml)
No comments:
Post a Comment