Spider Song

The building was tall, from the child's perspective, and quite narrow, only a little wider than its one door. Countless seasons of wind and sun and rain had warped the wood until now slats of light shone between the boards, and knotholes gaped. The wood had weathered to the dull silverfish gray of old coins, except for the bar across the door, which was much newer and so still retained its raw pine look.

The building had little depth; one walked in – or was thrown in – and immediately fetched up against the bench affixed to the back wall. One sat there, while the bar slammed into place.

Snakes inhabited the building, sometimes. Spiders always. Black or a fleshy beige, they sat motionless in their mazes of threads, hugely fat on the bounty of flies drawn to the place. On the rare occasions whey they moved, it was with surprising nimbleness and, of course, lethal intent. Later, in the relative safety of bed, the child would dream of vast webs, of immense spiders rushing towards a small figure thrashing in the sticky cobweb goo. But while actually in the building, the child never slept or dreamed.

Hours were spent watching the spiders, in case they should band together and attack. Snakes were watched in a near trance of terror until eventually they slid under the door and so away. A careful watch was kept on the hole, which was dark and seemingly bottomless, but from which nothing ever came except an ancient stench.

Endless time was spent with the left eye pressed to the one knot hole which afforded any view at all. In the day hours, people could be seen at times, in the distance or nearer to hand, engaged in various occupations. Until she was caught or sent away, Nancy sometimes would slip to the building with water and odd bits of food not likely to be missed. At other times it was the woman herself who came, stumbling in the grasses and weeds, pushing her long blonde hair from her face again and again in a gesture both weary and sensual, the thin mouth working derisively as she taunted the child with talk of cool drinks, fried chicken, tapioca pudding. She was watched with a desperation of fear and hope, for her coming, sooner or later, signaled release, a return to the house across the field, the strong brick house that was home.

Sometimes, in the dusk, she would come with the other, the man, both reeling in the grasses, both laughing a giddy, sliding laugh. She would call, "watch now, brat, see what mommy can do." There would be fumbling and laughter, then gasping as the thick red stick came out of the man's pants, with her pulling on it, squeezing it, making it bigger and bigger, and then a falling to the ground and a grappling, heaving, cursing time, with the woman saying, "aah" and "aah" and "oh god," and then, later, laughing and saying, "See, brat? You'll do it too, one day. Oh yes. Oh my yes."

In the night hours, the lights of the house could be seen from the know hole in the wall of the little building in the field. The child would watch them wink out, one by one, except for the one left burning at the back door as the homeowners' deterrent to crime. It held steady, a tiny beacon in the night. The eye watched it, hour upon hour, and the four-year-old heart, wounded beyond all hope of healing, ached for home.