Spider Season (3 page)

“Congratulations on the promotion.”

“Call me if you want to clarify anything.”

“I’m quite clear about what happened, Detective.”

He left me to speak with the female deputy. A neighbor had brought Maurice two bottles of water, one of which Maurice handed to me. I unscrewed the cap and drank it down all at once.

“That was quite an ordeal you went through, Benjamin.” He paused as worry lines creased his forehead. “Although the young man clearly got the worst of it, didn’t he?”

“I have a right to defend my property, Maurice. I have a right to defend myself.”

“Yes, of course.” His troubled eyes flickered in the direction of the house. “Why don’t we check the mail and then I’ll make us a nice lunch. I’ll wake Fred. He needs to eat something.”

We crossed the street as the EMTs helped the skinhead to his feet. His wrists were handcuffed in front of him, and with his bandages, he looked like any other punk who’d made a bad choice and was about to pay for it. He glanced over, but I looked away before our eyes met, unwilling to waste more time on him.

Maurice opened the metal mailbox at the end of the drive, which he’d painted years ago in rainbow colors. He removed a stack of mail, sorted through it, and handed me a letter from my publisher, a couple of bills, and a plain postcard hand-printed on the front. Whoever had sent the postcard had used an odd variation of my name:
Benjamin In Justice.

I turned it over to find a message in the same handwriting:

Read your book. Long and boring. I did enjoy the part in which you describe killing your father when you were 17, after you caught him diddling your little sister. He must have been a real bastard. That would explain why you turned out to be such a prick. Happy Father’s Day, faggot.

The postmark was dated the previous Saturday, the day before Father’s Day. The message was anonymous, no signature of any kind, and no return address. It wasn’t the first piece of negative mail I’d received since my memoir had been published, but it was certainly the nastiest. All the others had been addressed to my publisher for forwarding to me. Whoever had sent this one obviously knew where I lived.

“Benjamin, are you coming in?”

I looked up from the postcard, feeling weary and distracted. “I think I’ll catch a nap first, Maurice. This heat and humidity—I guess it’s gotten to me.”

“Sounds prudent, dear. I’ll bring up some lunch for you later, after I see to Fred.”

“Thanks, Maurice. That’s very kind.”

He turned into the house, leaning on a handrail for support as he mounted the steps. I was about to head up the drive when a clatter of wheels caught my attention. Out on the street, the EMTs had the skinhead strapped down on a stretcher and were loading him into the back of their ambulance, while a deputy stood by. When the suspect was in, sitting halfway up, he stared out through the open doors. His look was as indecipherable and his blue eyes as riveting as ever.

I could still feel them fixed on me long after the paramedics shut the ambulance doors and drove him away.

THREE

Upstairs, I turned on a ceiling fan, soaked a washcloth at the bathroom sink, and lay down with the wet cloth over my eyes. Not quite an hour later, I was awakened by the phone. Judith Zeitler, a thirtysomething book publicist I’d hired at the suggestion of Jan Long, was on the line. She was in her usual mood—energetic, upbeat, irrepressible.

“Which do you want first, Benjamin, the good news, or the good news?”

I sighed deeply, trying to shake off the lethargy of sleep. “Why don’t you start with the good news, Judith?”

“I’ve set up an interview with Cathryn Conroy from
Eye
!”

It took a moment for the name to register. When it did, I said, “Not to spoil your party, Judith, but Cathryn Conroy would just as soon spit on me as shake my hand.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s a long story that goes way back.”

“Maybe she’s gotten over it.”

“Did you approach the magazine, or did she bring the idea to you?”

“Actually, she came to me with it.”

“Why am I not surprised? She’s on the hunt for a kill.”

I explained that Cathryn Conroy and I had been up for the same plum position at the
Los Angeles Times
nearly twenty-five years ago, when we’d both been young reporters on a fast rise in the journalism world. I’d gotten the job, which Conroy had blamed on misogyny and gender discrimination at the
Times,
which in those days had far more men than women working the high-profile investigative assignments. Conroy had been voluble about the hire and had vowed never to work a staff job again. She’d channeled her anger and frustration into a successful freelance career and was now a regular contributor to
Eye,
the popular biweekly out of New York, known for its investigative pieces and probing, pull-no-punches profiles. Conroy must have been salivating at the chance to have at me all these years later, after I’d turned my great opportunity at the
Times
into one of the trade’s more notable scandals.

“If Cathryn Conroy writes a feature on me,” I said, “expect nothing less than a hatchet job, with plenty of my blood on the blade.”

“Benjamin,
Eye
is a very influential publication. Anyway, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

“Maybe not to a publicist,” I said.

“You’ll do the interview, right?”

“I’ll think about it.”

In fact, I knew I’d do the interview. My book wasn’t exactly flying off the shelves, and I had a lot riding on its success. It was probably my last chance to forge some kind of career as a writer, though in what direction I wasn’t sure. When you’ve won a Pulitzer Prize for a front-page newspaper series that later gets exposed as fabricated, as I had eighteen years ago, editors don’t come clamoring with offers of assignments.

“If Cathryn Conroy was good news,” I said, “I’m not sure I want to hear more.”

“Believe me, this is even better. Are you ready?”

“Standing against the wall, blindfolded.”

“Jerry Rivers Live!”

“The TV guy?”

“The highest-rated evening talk show on cable. The place where every author of a potential bestseller wants to be interviewed. At every commercial break, Jerry holds the book up to the camera and repeats the title. He always says what a great book it is, even when he hasn’t read it.”

“Sounds like a very serious show.”

“Benjamin, an hour with Jerry Rivers and you can sell enough copies the next day to put your book on the
New York Times
Best Seller List. It’s huge!”

“When do I have to do this?”

There was a pregnant pause. “The booking’s not actually confirmed. But it’s looking like a real possibility.”

From everything I could see, Judith was a terrific publicist, hardworking to a fault, but she wore me out.

“Judith, do me a favor. Just tell me when it’s a done deal, okay?”

“I’m just trying to be encouraging, Benjamin, to let you know I haven’t stopped working for you, even though your book tour is winding down.”

Now she sounded hurt.

“I know. It’s just that I’m on overload. It’s been a rough day.”

“What happened?”

“Personal stuff. Nothing to worry about.”

“I’m working on more print and radio interviews. I’ll let you know when they’re solid.”

“That’d be great.”

“And we’ve still got three more bookstore readings, plus the West Hollywood Book Fair in late September.”

“You’re doing a bang-up job, Judith. I really appreciate it.”

She suddenly had someone on call waiting, apologized, and abruptly ended our conversation. As I hung up, I noticed the unpleasant postcard on my desk, where I’d tossed it. I dropped it into the top drawer and headed for a shower.

As I toweled off afterward in front of the bathroom mirror, checking my scrapes and bruises, I made a quick study of the muscles I’d redeveloped in recent months. The medicinal cocktail I’d been taking the past couple of years had kept my virus in check but had led to wasting and lipodypstrophy—the serious loss of muscle mass and unsightly redistribution of fat common to many HIV positives. My doctor had put together a new drug combo that promised fewer side effects, but we wouldn’t know until my next blood test if it was continuing to suppress my virus and protect my immune system. In the meantime, he’d prescribed artificial testosterone to combat my loss of muscle mass. The results had been dramatic: After only a few months of steroid therapy and pumping iron at the gym several times a week, I’d gained twelve pounds of solid muscle, most of it in my upper body. I was due for another injection, and there was no better time than now, right after a shower, when my flesh was warm and soft.

I prepared a sterile syringe with 200 cc from the vial and swabbed a spot on my upper thigh with alcohol, where the muscle wasn’t too thick. I stuck the needle in with one fast motion, the most efficient and painless way. All that was left was to push down on the plunger and empty the syringe. Instead, I held up, staring at the needle embedded in my leg.

I suddenly realized why I’d reacted so violently out on the street, after years of working hard to keep my temper in check and avoid physical confrontations. It was the testosterone coursing through my system, triggering my rage and aggression, fueling my need to beat my chest and show the world how tough I was. A bit of the old “roid rage,” suddenly surfacing. Pumped up with the steroid, I’d reverted to my old ways, beating a young man nearly to a pulp.

Part of me felt guilty and embarrassed. The other part marveled at what I’d done, recalling how good it had felt, how empowering. I could easily withdraw the needle, I thought, empty the testosterone into the sink, and let my prescription expire without renewing it. I’d regained sufficient strength and then some. But I liked the sense of virility I’d experienced that day, facing down a younger man who’d challenged me. I was about to turn fifty. But thanks to the steroid, I’d been reborn with the vigor, muscularity, and libido of a man half my age. I wasn’t about to give it up.

I pressed down on the plunger, slowly forcing the clear liquid into my system. When the syringe was empty, I withdrew the needle, used a cotton swab to dab away a spot of blood, and covered the needle prick with a small adhesive bandage. There would be some stiffness in my thigh for a day or two, a minor ache, a tiny bruise.

A small price to pay, I thought, for cheating time.

FOUR

“Not in the shade, Benjamin.” Maurice pointed to a more open section of the backyard. “For healthy blooms, a gardenia needs sunlight.”

I was helping Maurice with his gardening, while he ordered me about like a benevolent drill sergeant. Not one to bear grudges or nag interminably, he’d left unmentioned my violent behavior of the previous day. He paused to close his eyes and sniff the air, letting his imagination inhale the perfume that would come with the opening blossoms.

“I can’t tell you how many evenings Fred and I have sat out here, listening to one of our favorite records and enjoying the sweet smell of gardenias.” He smiled, calculating in his head. “Hundreds, I suppose. Hundreds of evenings spent with the same man, doing the simplest things. Others might be bored silly, I suppose. But you know what? I wouldn’t trade one moment of it.”

I began digging another hole for the new gardenia bush, while Maurice hovered closely.

“Be sure to dig the hole so there’s plenty of loose soil at the bottom,” he said. “We’ll mix in some coffee grounds, for the acid. It helps loosen up the harder soil beneath, and invites the earthworms.”

Maurice turned into the house while I prepared the hole to his specifications. He returned carrying a plastic bowl with the coffee grounds and with Fred on his other arm, moving slowly down the back steps. I hadn’t seen Fred for nearly three weeks, since just before my book tour started, and I was shocked by how gaunt and pale he’d become in such a short time. For much of his life, he’d been a long-haul truck driver, a burly, robust man who drove an 18-wheeler for a living, until he retired in his sixties to spend more time at home with Maurice. Now, in his mideighties, he was a frail shadow of that once vital man. I understood immediately why Maurice had seemed so preoccupied lately about Fred’s health.

Maurice tried to help him into an Adirondack chair, but Fred fended him off, grabbing a rake instead.

“I’m not dead yet,” he grumbled.

Maurice glanced painfully my way but said nothing. Fred began raking weakly at small leaves in the grass. Maurice handed me the bowl and I spaded the coffee grounds into the freshly turned soil. I set the gardenia into the hole, covered up all but the top of the root ball with soil, and wet the roots from a watering can.

Nearby, Maurice kneeled to lift a stepping-stone that needed leveling. He suddenly shrieked, dropping the concrete square as he rose to his feet.

“A spider!” He closed his eyes and waved his upraised hands, as if trying to shake away the sight of it. “I do believe it’s one of those horrid black widows. Benjamin, take a look. You know how I am about them.”

I kneeled, gripped the edge of the stepping-stone, and raised it at an angle. Nestled in a small crevice of the flattened soil was a black spider with a bulbous body. Inches away were three egg sacs spun in silk, probably close to hatching in the late June heat. I used a hand spade to flip the spider over. Its belly bore a red, violin-shaped mark, identifying it as a common black widow. It wasn’t the most dangerous of spiders, but I knew that its venom was considerably more potent than that of most types of rattlesnake. Not something you wanted to experience if you could help it.

Maurice had covered his eyes with both hands but was peeking through his fingers. When the spider started squirming he yelped and backed farther away.

“It’s just a damn spider,” Fred said. “One of those sacs can produce a hundred spiders or more. If we turned over enough stones, we’d find plenty more.”

“Thank you for your support, dear,” Maurice said. “Please, Benjamin, do something. Before it comes after us.”