The houseboat, built on oil drums, rose and fell with the water. Spiders infested the space under the floorboards. Irene caught one and pinned its eight legs and segmented body on a scrap of paper she taped outside her bedroom door. Beneath the cadaver in red lipstick she wrote, "Enter this room at your own risk. Look at your brother."
"They bite me in my sleep," she said hiking up her T-shirt to show Carl a red line of welts running like stitches from her navel to below her right breast.
"Horrible."
"That's why I kill them."
Carl caught spiders in towels and escorted them out the door, setting them free saying, “You belong outside.”
"They just walk back in," said Irene. "And bite me! You know the females kill the males after sex."
Irene's story was simple. She was a farm girl, the last of six kids, with thick glasses, and skinny as a stick, but pretty nonetheless. She married her first boyfriend. More friendship than passion. She dropped out of college when he announced that he was moving west. She moved with him, getting married to please their mothers.
They tried to have a baby. Tried hard for a year. They had sex on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and all weekend long. She did head stands after he came, hoping his ejaculation would run down deep and hit pay dirt. But after a year of trying, she got depressed and told him, "It's not you. It's me. I have to go find myself.” And she left.
It was five years later. Carl spent most nights with Irene on the houseboat. Three geese came in through the French doors that opened onto Lake Union. They waddled into the living room honking.
" They are just rats with wings," Irene said. "Shoo!" she stamped her feet and stood on one leg, flapped her arms like an angry crane and shouted, "Don't fuck with me. I'll pluck you, and cook you for my supper."
The geese reared up, and spread their wings as though ready for a fight.
Irene charged them flapping her arms. All three geese turned and fled out the doors. They slipped back into the lake from whence they’d come.
"I love doing that," she said.
"Is there anything you are afraid of?” Carl asked.
"Yeah," she said. "You."
"Why me?"
"Because you," she swallowed, "can hurt me."
They had a four-poster bed that Irene and Carl found at a yard sale. It was painted an ugly yellow. "They used to paint things yellow during the depression," Carl said, "to cheer themselves up."
"How smart?" said Irene. "Did it work?"
"I don't know," said Carl.
"Let’s paint everything yellow.”
"You know what you do with a four poster?” Carl said.
"No," she said.
“Spread your feet apart and stand on your toes.” She placed her feet wide and stood on her tip toes.
"Now put your arms over your head and spread them.” She put her arms up. Her eyes opened wide.
"Oh, you devil," she squealed. "Promise!"
Carl had a daughter named Ginny who was eight years old. He doted on her. Irene loved her too. She liked to dress her, and bath her, and tie her hair up in ribbons. Irene also taught Ginny to whistle with two fingers, and how to climb trees and beat up boys who dared pull her hair, or "gross you out," Irene said.
"She's not your daughter," Carl said.
"Why are you so scared?"
"I'm not scared. I'm honest."
"I think you're mean," said Irene
Irene was at Carl’s and she picked up a stack of mail. She held up an envelope, addressed by hand with no return name and address. She sniffed it.
"Who is Jane?" said Irene.
Everything changed.
"What's wrong with me?” she screamed at Carl. "Why don't you want me?"
"It's not you. It's me," he said.
"That's my line. So I know it's a lie."
"I'm not ready to get married again. Or even to live together."
"You'll never find anyone who loves you as much as I do."
"That's what I'm afraid of," he said.
She stamped her feet and screamed, "Jane. Jane. Jane. Jane. Jane."
"I'm leaving now," said Carl.
Irene kept screaming the name, Jane, after him.
They met for coffee a week later.
"Come back to the houseboat," she said over the wiz of the espresso machines and the laughter of couples. "Make love to me. One last time.” Irene's eyes begged him. "Please."
"It'll only be sex."
"I know," she said.
So there they lay–on that yellow four-poster. His legs spread wide and tied with silk. His wrist wrapped and secured with woven yoga straps. His mouth stuffed with a pair of her white socks with little red hearts on them, taped so he couldn't spit them out. He was lean and tight–young and handsome. Maybe too pretty, she thought. Even now. His nostrils were covered with duct tape and stuffed with cotton.
It had been awful. He thrashed and made futile attempts to break the restraints.
Irene tried in the end to get the sock out of his mouth, to save him. But too late, his teeth clenched on it. He was strong. She breathed in his mouth, and pressed his chest. In the end she lay on top of him, not breathing in his mouth, but kissing him with deep, soulful kisses. Realizing, she loved him now more than ever.
The houseboat rose and fell with the rhythm of the water. A black spider walked across the white sheet in front of her. It froze in its tracks when it realized that Irene was looking at it.
"They bite me in my sleep," she said hiking up her T-shirt to show Carl a red line of welts running like stitches from her navel to below her right breast.
"Horrible."
"That's why I kill them."
Carl caught spiders in towels and escorted them out the door, setting them free saying, “You belong outside.”
"They just walk back in," said Irene. "And bite me! You know the females kill the males after sex."
Irene's story was simple. She was a farm girl, the last of six kids, with thick glasses, and skinny as a stick, but pretty nonetheless. She married her first boyfriend. More friendship than passion. She dropped out of college when he announced that he was moving west. She moved with him, getting married to please their mothers.
They tried to have a baby. Tried hard for a year. They had sex on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and all weekend long. She did head stands after he came, hoping his ejaculation would run down deep and hit pay dirt. But after a year of trying, she got depressed and told him, "It's not you. It's me. I have to go find myself.” And she left.
It was five years later. Carl spent most nights with Irene on the houseboat. Three geese came in through the French doors that opened onto Lake Union. They waddled into the living room honking.
" They are just rats with wings," Irene said. "Shoo!" she stamped her feet and stood on one leg, flapped her arms like an angry crane and shouted, "Don't fuck with me. I'll pluck you, and cook you for my supper."
The geese reared up, and spread their wings as though ready for a fight.
Irene charged them flapping her arms. All three geese turned and fled out the doors. They slipped back into the lake from whence they’d come.
"I love doing that," she said.
"Is there anything you are afraid of?” Carl asked.
"Yeah," she said. "You."
"Why me?"
"Because you," she swallowed, "can hurt me."
They had a four-poster bed that Irene and Carl found at a yard sale. It was painted an ugly yellow. "They used to paint things yellow during the depression," Carl said, "to cheer themselves up."
"How smart?" said Irene. "Did it work?"
"I don't know," said Carl.
"Let’s paint everything yellow.”
"You know what you do with a four poster?” Carl said.
"No," she said.
“Spread your feet apart and stand on your toes.” She placed her feet wide and stood on her tip toes.
"Now put your arms over your head and spread them.” She put her arms up. Her eyes opened wide.
"Oh, you devil," she squealed. "Promise!"
Carl had a daughter named Ginny who was eight years old. He doted on her. Irene loved her too. She liked to dress her, and bath her, and tie her hair up in ribbons. Irene also taught Ginny to whistle with two fingers, and how to climb trees and beat up boys who dared pull her hair, or "gross you out," Irene said.
"She's not your daughter," Carl said.
"Why are you so scared?"
"I'm not scared. I'm honest."
"I think you're mean," said Irene
Irene was at Carl’s and she picked up a stack of mail. She held up an envelope, addressed by hand with no return name and address. She sniffed it.
"Who is Jane?" said Irene.
Everything changed.
"What's wrong with me?” she screamed at Carl. "Why don't you want me?"
"It's not you. It's me," he said.
"That's my line. So I know it's a lie."
"I'm not ready to get married again. Or even to live together."
"You'll never find anyone who loves you as much as I do."
"That's what I'm afraid of," he said.
She stamped her feet and screamed, "Jane. Jane. Jane. Jane. Jane."
"I'm leaving now," said Carl.
Irene kept screaming the name, Jane, after him.
They met for coffee a week later.
"Come back to the houseboat," she said over the wiz of the espresso machines and the laughter of couples. "Make love to me. One last time.” Irene's eyes begged him. "Please."
"It'll only be sex."
"I know," she said.
So there they lay–on that yellow four-poster. His legs spread wide and tied with silk. His wrist wrapped and secured with woven yoga straps. His mouth stuffed with a pair of her white socks with little red hearts on them, taped so he couldn't spit them out. He was lean and tight–young and handsome. Maybe too pretty, she thought. Even now. His nostrils were covered with duct tape and stuffed with cotton.
It had been awful. He thrashed and made futile attempts to break the restraints.
Irene tried in the end to get the sock out of his mouth, to save him. But too late, his teeth clenched on it. He was strong. She breathed in his mouth, and pressed his chest. In the end she lay on top of him, not breathing in his mouth, but kissing him with deep, soulful kisses. Realizing, she loved him now more than ever.
The houseboat rose and fell with the rhythm of the water. A black spider walked across the white sheet in front of her. It froze in its tracks when it realized that Irene was looking at it.
