Forget the shivs, Greta told herself in the mirror. Grow up. Go home. Tell Sabine everything. Confess, unburden yourself, take responsibility. Then what? End this insanity and get on with your life. Try Tinder. Date dudes if you must. Go back to being numb. Dumb. Numb. Mom?
Big Swiss opened the door, shut it behind her, and immediately fastened her mouth onto Greta’s neck. Greta felt teeth and pulled away.
“Are you trying to kill me?”
“It’s been impossible not to touch you,” Big Swiss said. “I thought I would explode. I felt envious watching Silas lick your feet.”
“Why are you acting like this?”
“Like what?”
“Cunty,” Greta said.
“I’m sorry I lashed out at you,” Big Swiss said. “I think Luke’s cheating on me, and I’m losing my mind. I’ve never felt so… lost. One minute I’m relieved, the next I’m enraged. Then I feel ashamed—”
“Shame is good. Hold on to that,” Greta said. “And it’s you who’s cheating, not him. Projection!”
“I don’t want to go to Ecuador,” Big Swiss said. “I was livid when he booked the tickets without asking me.”
“You were goading me in there. It seems like you want me to tell your husband we’re dating. That’s the vibe I’m getting.”
“We’re not dating. Don’t be disgusting,” Big Swiss said. “I love you.”
“Okay,” Greta said.
“Okay?”
“I love you, too, but you should ask yourself what you really want,” Greta said. “I’m too old for this.”
Which was confusing, of course, because Greta had never felt younger. Or more… boyish. Maybe she would start playing video games or take up mixed martial arts.
“Can I steal one of these shivs?” Greta asked.
“Don’t touch that.”
“I’d like to get out of this house now,” Greta said. “Okay if I crawl out the back door?”
“I’ll tell Luke you’re having an allergic reaction.”
“To your horrible personality?”
“To the histamines in hard cheese,” Big Swiss said. “It’s very common. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. For three hours. Would you like that?”
“Maybe,” Greta admitted, screaming inwardly.
* * *
ON THE WAY HOME, Greta drove with the windows down. Thankfully, the phantoms flew off her head and into the stiff wind. Now that she was clearheaded, she rehearsed her confession. It was long, and she’d have to deliver it right away, possibly with her eyes closed, as soon as she set foot in the house, before Sabine could get a word in edgewise.
In the kitchen, Sabine was hunched over the sink. The sink had a deep basin but no faucet. To do dishes, they filled a dishpan with the hose outside and then carried it back to the kitchen, water sloshing everywhere. If it was warm enough, they simply did the dishes in the yard. Otherwise they collected water from the bathroom. Yes, it was a huge pain in the ass, but the plumber—never mind.
“I have a shameful secret,” Greta announced.
“Not as shameful as this,” Sabine said, peering at something in the basin. She was holding a magnifying glass. “Yep,” Sabine said. “Yep, yep.”
The dishpan held a few inches of filthy water and a few pieces of silverware. Floating on the surface, a smelly yellow sponge. Clinging to the sponge like it was a life raft, a poker-chip-size black lace weaver. Greta was accustomed to seeing these spiders in the house, but this one looked crippled and strangely out of focus. It also seemed to be moving, even though it was standing still. Was it having a seizure?
Sabine wordlessly passed Greta the magnifying glass.
Greta peered through the glass and gasped. The giant spider was in fact standing still, but hundreds of baby spiders were crawling all over it in a frenzy.
“She’s being devoured,” Sabine said. “By her own children.”
Greta covered her mouth.
“Pretty much my worst nightmare,” Sabine said, and yawned. “I was just about to go to bed, but I suppose we should deal with this now. They’re almost done eating.”
They smoked a cigarette and discussed options. Five minutes later, they carefully lifted the dishpan out of the sink and carried it out of the house together. The plan was to simply dump it in the woods, but they never made it that far, because Greta dropped her end of the dishpan after a dozen spiderlings ran straight up her arm. She frantically brushed them off while making a Pi?on-like noise in the back of her throat.
“Oh god, they’re everywhere,” Sabine said, looking at the ground.
Greta began jogging toward the house.
“Wait!” Sabine screamed. “Take off your clothes!”
They both removed their coveralls, left them in a pile on the ground, and walked into the house in their underwear. Greta decided to cancel her confession.
* * *
IN THE MORNING, she rehearsed again: “Listen, I became infatuated with one of Om’s clients, a married woman in her twenties, and I recognized her voice at the dog park, and now we’re having an affair, but she doesn’t know who I am or what my real name is, and she’s being stalked by a psychopath who just got out of prison, and I had dinner at her house with her husband last night, but I think we might be in love? So yeah, I guess I’m fully gay.”
It needed work, obviously, but she needed coffee first. She descended the stairs to the kitchen. Sabine was already awake and on her third or fourth cigarette, wearing a baby-doll nightgown with hospital pants, sitting in the Louis XIV chair with the ripped seat.
“I have something to confess,” Greta blurted.
“Hold on,” Sabine said. “I keep hearing—shit, you hear that?”
It sounded like rain pelting a tarp. Greta went to the window and looked out at the yard. No rain or wind, only flowering weeds. The noise was coming from inside the house, but it sounded different near the window. It had an oozing, vaguely sensual quality. Greta looked at the ceiling.
“Something’s in the hive,” Greta said.
Sabine slapped her leg. “Thank god. I knew they’d come back. I had a very intense dream about it the other night.”
They stood underneath the hatch, squinting up at the hive, but the bees were difficult to see because the Plexiglas was coated with bee debris from the previous generation. Greta idly wondered if bees pooped.
“I don’t want to disturb them, but I’m dying to see how many there are, aren’t you?” Sabine said. “Fetch me the flashlight.”
Sabine swept the light over the length of the hive, all seven feet of it.
“Son of a bitch,” Sabine said.
The hive was indeed teeming, but not with bees. Greta groaned and turned away, shielding her eyes like a child. Of course, she thought. Of course it had to be maggots. What else?
“Why are they so enormous?” Sabine said. “Look at them! There must be hundreds!”
Greta couldn’t look. Or listen. She tried to think of something that repulsed her more than maggots. The answer was nothing. Nothing!
“This is a pretty serious infestation,” Sabine said. “And they’re very large. It’s going to be hard to kill these fuckers.”