Chapter 7.

7.

Loud, terrified shrieks jolted me out of my chair. She sounded like she was being attacked. I opened my door and Tammy was already out of her bedroom. Together we ran down the hallway to find Abigail. Her door was closed but we could hear her on the other side, yelling like she’d stepped onto a bear trap. We went inside and found her backed into a corner, eyes wide with terror, gesturing furiously to an empty wall.

“Abby, what is it?” Tammy asked. “What’s wrong?”

She was too hysterical to answer. She just kept pointing and shaking her finger at some invisible, unspeakable horror. Tammy approached her cautiously, both hands raised to show she meant no harm.

“It’s okay, it’s all right, you’re safe here. No one’s going to hurt you. Breathe, sweetie, breathe.”

Abigail flipped face down on the rug like she was trying to bury her head in the floor. She was inconsolable. She hammered her fists and kicked her feet, and I started to think maybe she had much bigger problems than “food insecurity.” Maybe she had a major behavioral disorder. Maybe she’d throw a temper tantrum at the wedding and fling all her flower petals into the horrified faces of Aidan’s parents.

But as I looked around her bedroom in despair, I realized the blank wall wasn’t entirely blank. There was a door to a closet, and it was still slightly ajar. I moved closer to investigate and Abigail shrieked like a teakettle at a full boil.

“Don’t, Mister Frank! Don’t!”

“Sweetheart, it’s okay! We’re here,” Tammy said. By this point she was holding Abigail and smoothing her hair with the palm of her hand. “What’s wrong? What did you see?”

She shook her head, refusing to answer, as if naming her discovery would somehow grow its power.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” I threw open the door to reveal an empty cedar closet. Nothing but a single high shelf, a wooden rod, and a couple of wire coat hangers. As I leaned inside, an overhead light flickered on, revealing a fuzzy clump of something on the shelf.

At first glance, I thought it was a wig. A long weave of curly dark brown hair. Then I looked more closely and realized it was quivering. Like it had a very faint pulse.

“What is it?” Tammy asked. “Frankie, what do you see?”

I grabbed a coat hanger and used one end to gently poke at the wig. A daddy longlegs climbed out of it, then another, and then suddenly dozens more. I realized it wasn’t a wig; it was a nest, hundreds of daddy longlegs huddled together for safety and warmth in the darkness of the closet. Now they were fleeing from attack and scrambling across the walls. A big fat one dropped on my hand and I shrieked; I couldn’t help it. I slapped myself silly trying to knock it off.

“Close the door!” Abigail screamed.

I slammed it shut, then looked down and saw a half-inch gap at the bottom. I yanked a blanket off the bed and used it to seal the opening. “It’s spiders,” I said. “Daddy longlegs.”

“Daddy longlegs aren’t spiders,” Tammy said. “They’re totally different animals.”

I told her I didn’t care: in my book, if a bug has eight legs and looks like a spider, then it’s a spider. “They must have laid eggs.”

At the mention of eggs, Abigail yowled, and I begged her to please, please stop screaming. “You’ve already got eggs in your hair, so let’s not overreact.”

She fell onto her side and hugged her knees, curling herself into a ball while my sister frowned. “That’s not helpful.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t think with her screaming. Can you please find some way to shut her up?”

Tammy rubbed her hand in gentle circles on Abigail’s back, trying to soothe her. “Let’s just call the Gardners and explain the problem. I’m sure we can switch cottages.”

“No, I’m not doing that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it sounds pathetic. What kind of man calls Errol Gardner and complains about spiders in his closet?”

“It’s a serious infestation, Frankie. I think they need to call an exterminator.”

“Those guys are a waste of money. They charge you three hundred dollars to spray a bunch of poison but all I need’s a good shoe.”

Tammy and Abigail waited outside on the front porch while I did all my dirty work with a Florsheim leather oxford—one half of the pair I’d brought to walk Maggie down the aisle. I didn’t want the spiders to escape, so I sealed myself in the closet and started swatting. It was brutal, nasty work. There were hundreds of spiders and their mashed-up bodies excreted a foul odor, like something you’d squeeze from a boil. But I soldiered on, gagging on the awful stench until every last one was dead. Then I went downstairs for a bowl of warm water and a kitchen sponge and I proceeded to wipe down the cedar walls and ceiling, cleaning up all the broken legs and splattered remains. So much for “unpack, unwind, relax, and explore.”

After I finished, I went outside to the front of the cottage and told Tammy the coast was clear. Then we spent a good ten minutes persuading Abigail that it was safe to return indoors. She was certain that I’d missed a few spiders and said she’d rather spend the weekend sleeping on the porch. I reminded her that most bugs lived outdoors, that the forest was alive with beetles, ticks, wasps, and centipedes—but this just set her off all over again.

“I won’t go back in there,” Abigail said. “I can’t do it, Miss Tammy. Please don’t make me do it. Please, please, please, please, please—”

So I figured fine, case closed, let the kid sleep on the porch. There were some really nice Adirondack chairs and we’d just bury her in blankets. Or dial zero on the house phone to request a sleeping bag. But my sister said she had a better idea, and she asked me to come inside the cottage. “I want to talk to you for a minute.”

We went into the kitchen and Tammy used the little Nescafé machine to fix us both coffee. She made mine with milk and two sugars because she knows that’s how I take it. Then she placed the tiny cup in front of me and lowered the boom: “I think you and Abigail should switch rooms.”

“No way. Forget it.”

“It’s just a place to sleep. We’re going to spend most of the weekend outside.”

“Fine, you give her your room.”

“ I can’t trade with her, Frankie. You know I’m scared of bugs.”

“The bugs are gone.” I was still holding the Florsheim shoe and I showed her the bottom. “I just killed a thousand of them. I was like John Wick in there.”

“Right, but you couldn’t have gotten all of them. There’re more spiders in that room, I’m sure of it. And if we force Abigail to stay there, she’ll be up half the night screaming. We won’t get a wink of sleep.”

I was struck by the maddening realization that Tammy was right: I had to choose between a sleepless night in my luxury suite or a solid eight hours in a child’s bunk bed.

“This is why I didn’t want to bring her! I told you there’d be trouble!” I pointed upstairs to the second floor. “That is nicer than any hotel room I’ve ever seen, and I shouldn’t have to give it up.”

“Don’t blame this on me, Frankie. I wanted to call the Gardners and ask for a new cottage. But you said you’d take care of it yourself. And then all you did was chase those spiders back into their hidey-holes. How is this my fault?”

Out on the porch, Abigail was pacing back and forth in front of the window, furiously scratching her head with both hands.

“Please, Tammy. She wants to sleep outside.”

“Frankie, that poor girl spent all of March and April sleeping outside. She and her mother were living behind a Taco Bell. There is no way I’m making her do that again. I want her in a proper bed with clean sheets and a pillow, just like me and you and the Gardners, do you understand?”

All I understood was that I’d already lost the argument—again—so I threw my goddamn cup in the goddamn sink and then went upstairs to move my stuff.