Catherine was not afraid of many things. Oh, she cringed at the occasional snake or lizard or frog Will or Burt might bring home. But generally she handled the zoological traumas of motherhood with amazing aplomb. She had somehow even found the reserves-deep, deep reserves, to be sure-to hold up a nearly complete lizard skin shed by some long-forgotten denizen of an overgrown vine that crept along the back fence in their apartment in Riverside. Burt had found it one July and brought it to her with all the pride and triumph of Sir Francis Drake presenting the treasure-laden Golden Hind to Her Majesty the Queen.
“How nice. How interesting,” she had murmured to Burt’s breathless, “Gosh, Mom, isn’t this neat” as he dropped the thing into her hand. Somehow she managed not to crush the monstrosity…at least not until Burt was long out of sight and she could safely deposit the treasure in the garbage. Fortunately, he had never wondered why she was not wearing the paper-thin, transparently scaled skin as a brooch to church or as a hat on special days.
No, she could handle most things.
But not this!
Her scream echoed even louder in her own head than in the silent air. Long and harsh and painful. Her throat felt on fire. Her lungs screamed their own counterpoint, demanding air air air.
For a moment-a blessed moment that she hoped would come but feared even more because then she might lose control and fall to the cold tile floor and become one with the rustling, scabrous, heaving movement-she nearly fainted.
She caught herself at the last instant and thrust her hand out to the counter to steady herself. And felt more dryness and frenetic movement. She passed beyond startlement and fear into horror as the things crossed her fingers, their legs burning into her skin like infinitesimal points of acid.
She jerked her hand away, the action simultaneously rousing her out of her threatened faint and intensifying her disgust and revulsion.
They were climbing her hand and arm!
Shuddering beyond conscious control, she screamed again and sliced frantically at her arm with her other hand, fingers stiffened into knives, palm slapping viciously against her own flesh, oblivious to pain, oblivious to anything but a burgeoning horror.
Roaches.
Roaches!
She might have been able to handle one. Perhaps. But even one was generally enough to send her screaming for help-please Willard get it out of the tub please Willard flush it down the sink please Willard please Willard.
She might have been able to handle one. On an extraordinary day, two.
Three? Never.
But now the floor seemed alive with them, flooding in and out of the darkness to scuttle with their hideous dry, raspy click from darkness to the eerily distorted square of light from the living room, then back again to the darkness. They jittered across the white plate on the table, they danced in mindless pagan circles around the white plastic cup, they slithered like animated nightmares in and out of the red-and-blue printed plastic bread wrapper that should have been tied with the little yellow metal twist-tie but that Willard had left open. In and out. In and out.
Feeling the hot press of vomit in her stomach, Catherine moved. Unthinking, responsive only to her body’s single command get out of here now! she stepped back into the safety of the living room. Her foot touched carpet, reveled in the sudden sensation of shag loops tickling the sensitive skin. Her hand slapped the dimmer switch and unconsciously twisted it to full. The four bulbs in the kitchen’s overhead fixture glared down balefully, and Catherine took a single long look and screamed for a fourth time and closed her eyes.