Bitten — In Three Parts
[As a part of FlashNano, I am committed to writing 30 short essays or flash-fiction pieces during the the month of November.]
I
My husband was obsessed with the brown recluse spider. Loxosceles reclusa.
He had an encyclopedic knowledge of their existence: where they lived, what they ate, the famous violin marking that earned them the moniker, “fiddleback spider,” and the fact they only had six eyes, unlike their arachnid kin that had eight.
I didn’t understand his obsession — he believed brown recluses were the most lethal spiders in North America, which isn’t true, despite his insistence and my wanting to believe everything he said was true — because we lived in Pennsylvania, not a native state for Loxosceles reclusa.
We dwelled then, in our early married years, deep in the forest on a mostly wooded, five-acre lot. The outside world often became the inside world, and we shared our little piece of paradise with the wolf spider, which often is mistaken for the brown recluse but actually is a gardening friend, gobbling up nuisance insects such as beetles and other pests. I can’t imagine this was the source of his obsession. In retrospect, I think it was his deep-seated desire for danger, or more aptly, to become the brown recluse — a quiet, brooding thing that hid in the shadows, but when it bit, it bit to the bone.
My marriage to him was relatively short. When the fissure developed, it formed fast. And hard, really hard. I thought we had been happy together, but shortly before the celebration of our fourth anniversary, all hell broke loose. Within a few days’ time, our marriage was over.
We had squabbled a bit before the anniversary. I was angry that he had forgotten it. He was angry that I was angry. We did the sensible adult thing and set the re-do button, planning a lovely dinner out together, all past forgottens forgotten. I came home from work the night of our anniversary dinner to a messy house and a sink full of dishes. He was supposed to be ready to go but was instead on the computer. I lost it big time, all accusation and rage.
He stormed out of the house, never to return.
II
Between the raging and crying and suicidal thinking, I called my wonderfully wise and calm therapist who said, “I did not see this coming. I wonder what else he is hiding.”
I blinked to epiphany. Yes, indeed. Yes, what else? What. Is. He. Hiding?
I immediately began searching through his computer and discovered a hidden life that sickened me. He set his history to delete after 24 hours, but I was able to recover his profile from Adult Friend Finder and fetish sites that revealed someone I did not know at all.
Someone I shared my bed with each night. Someone who wrapped his legs around me for comfort, each night.
I did not know what was real. Like the dark side of the moon, my husband only showed half of himself to me half of the time.
Through the help of a computer wizard, I was able to recover everything my husband thought he had deleted. Among the soul-crushing things I discovered, I learned that while I was in India helping orphaned children, my husband was checked into an Econo Lodge in Binghamton, NY, having group sex with guys and chicks in dog collars.
Dog collars and requests for bare-backed sex.
I recalled a Leonard Cohen song, “Anthem”:
Ring the bells (ring the bells) that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything (there is a crack in everything)
That’s how the light gets in
We asked for signs
The signs were sent
The birth betrayed
The marriage spent …
Yes, there was a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in. It hurt like nothing than I had experienced before, and my life was never the same.
III
I had an itch and didn’t think much about it. After all, it was Florida — my adopted state — in the summertime. Could have been anything — fire ants, pissed-off flies, mysterious wasps.
I have lived in the Sunshine State five years now, and Florida is still a mystery. There’s a constant encroaching of the greenery, prickly vines, saw-sharp palmettos, and recalcitrant trees that won’t tell us their name. To counteract nature are men in trucks loaded with mowers, hedge clippers, and power edgers. The entire state is in a battle with itself. Nature wants its wetlands, waterways, and forests back. An entire industry has arisen to tame the untameable.
I do my small part in mowing a small lot.
On a certain July day, after doing my small part with a push mower, I recover to air conditioning and ice water to what I think is an inconsequential itch. A day later, that itch has transmogrified into an angry, oozing pustule. A few days after that, in the doctor’s office, I get a confirmation of a spider bite.
Most likely, a brown recluse. Right here in the sunlight.
I’m prescribed oral antibiotics and a topical cream, but I know it’s going to be alright. This bite will not go to the bone.
I have been bitten before. And I survived.