Objects of Worship (12 page)

The message is from a lawyer called Laurent Tavernier.
It’s a legal warning that I must remove my website, cease-and-desist from posting, publishing, and/or distributing
any of its contents, and cede ownership of the domain name
to Shrugging Atlas Comics, the publishers of
Spiderkid
Adventures
.

Shit.

Spiderkid, of course, is Steve Rand’s most famous creation.
By now there have been animated cartoons, live-action
TV shows, feature films, novels, and more merchandising
than any one person could ever amass, so everyone knows
the character by sight. Even though he’d been around
for twenty years when I came across the Shrugging Atlas
Treasury Special, he wasn’t quite so ubiquitous back then.

Spiderkid is a daredevil punster who loves being a
superhero. His life is a complicated soap opera, but nothing
ever triumphs over his relentless good cheer. An instant
runaway hit in comic books, it was inevitable that Spiderkid
would eventually crawl into other media as well.

Shrugging Atlas Treasury Special: Spiderkid Adventures
—
the first comic book I ever read — is the most prized item
in my collection. I’ve read it hundreds, maybe thousands,
of times. One hundred pages long, it reprints “An Amazing
Fantasy” — the first appearance and origin of Spiderkid —
and six other stories introducing the most sinister members
of his rogues’ gallery: “Duel with the Carrion Crow,” “The
Strange Threat of Professor Squid,” “The Face of the
Reptile,” “And Call Him the Electric Man,” “The Mystery
of Mister Menace,” and “The Coming of the Hellscorpions.”
Often, if I’m too tired to read when I go to bed, I’ll take out
the treasury and just browse through it to admire Rand’s
artwork and to recapture the feeling of excitement and
discovery that filled me as I rode on the train, exposed for
the first time to Rand’s imagination. Exposed for the first
time to the mysteries of spiders.

I should be working on my history paper, but I’m too
irritated and shaken by the email from the Shrugging Atlas
lawyer to write anything. I guess I have no choice but to
abandon the website. Damn. I put so much work into it. I
can’t afford to go up against corporate lawyers; anyway, I
don’t want to fight. The website was supposed to be for fun,
and that one email is the needle that burst the bubble. I
take a quick shower to clear my head. I decide to go out.

I blow-dry my shoulder-length black hair, and I smile at
the blond streaks — the contrast of yellow against black a
reminder of Spiderkid’s costume. I brush it back and keep it
in place with gel. I carefully apply a thin line of black eyeliner
to highlight my dark blue eyes. I learned from my cousin
how to make it look natural. She used to tease me about
how much she loved the colour of my eyes . . . at least until
her parents caught us making out when we were thirteen.
Both sets of parents went absolutely crazy. Mine threatened
me with boarding school, throwing out all my comics, and
getting rid of all my spider stuff if they discovered that
Marie and I ever did as much as exchange another email.
And Marie’s parents were always stricter than mine; I can
only imagine how bad it was for her. I haven’t even spoken
to her since then. I hear she has a boyfriend now.

I dress entirely in black, and I clasp a gold chain around
my neck. It’s a handmade necklace by an African artist; on
it hangs a jewelled effigy of Nyiko, the heroic spider god of
Cameroon whose mythic adventures inspired Steve Rand
to create Spiderkid. Marie gave it to me for my twelfth
birthday.

I weep a little, and the eyeliner runs.

Shit. I have to redo it.

I really need to go out and talk to some new people. I’m
stuck in a sad, nostalgic rut tonight, and I hate it.

It’s retro trip-hop night at The Fly’s Joint. I get a beer and
sit at the bar. I recognize a few faces from campus, but
nobody I know. That’s good and bad. I’m dying to have a
conversation, but I don’t initiate contact easily. I’m so tired
of seeing the same reflection in familiar eyes, though, and
I want to meet someone new.

By my second sip of beer, I’m already feeling depressed.
The place is full of people, laughing, drinking, dancing, and
I feel like a pile of toxic waste polluting everything that
comes near me. The space between me and everyone else
in the club expands, isolating me; even the music starts to
sound muffled and distant . . .

. . . And I see them playing pool; immediately my sour
mood evaporates, and I’m focused, interested, fascinated.
The man is Asian, probably Chinese: he’s tall, with broad
shoulders, a squarish face, and black hair tied back in a pony
tail. The woman is white, with wavy hair coming down to
her shoulder blades, streaked in multiple colours. They’re
both dressed in black: he’s wearing shorts and a loose tank
top; she’s wearing a short skirt with a bra top. Spiders cover
their well-defined bodies: their legs, their backs, their
arms, their faces . . .

My throat feels desperately dry, and I quickly down the
rest of my beer. Then I walk toward them; I can’t take my
eyes off their bodies, their tattoos.

When I reach the pool table, they’re both facing away
from me, concentrating on the game. Boldly, I say hello —
but they take no notice.

They might not have registered that I was speaking to
them. It’s so noisy they might not have heard me at all. So
I just stand there watching them play, nervously fiddling
with my necklace, biting my lips, hoping for eye contact.

They’re both very good players, pulling off complicated
and daring calls. Five shots later, the man notices me and
nods his head in greeting, smiling warmly. His eyes widen
when he notices the Nyiko pendant around my neck.

He touches the woman’s shoulder and whispers to her,
pointing at me.

She turns around — I gasp, seeing her face clearly for the
first time. “Marie.”

And I faint.

I’m lying on my back, and I feel the weight of a hand on my
stomach, a warm breath brushing against my ear. I open
my eyes, and I don’t recognize where I am. I jump out of
bed, alarmed.

And then I hear my name. I recognize her voice, even
though it’s deeper now, more confident. On the bed there’s
Marie, her makeup smeared by tears. She says, “I visit your
Spiderkid website all the time, you know.”

I start crying. I don’t know how I managed to spend
these past six years without her.

I’m back on the bed, and we’re kissing, our tongues
hungrily
probing
each
other’s
mouths,
our
hands
impatiently tugging at each other’s clothes. Marie touches
my neck, and her fingers fall on the pendant. She takes her
mouth away from mine, and she looks at Nyiko, tenderly
caressing the icon. She lifts it and slides her tongue on my
collarbone, on the sensitive skin of my neck.

Soon we’re naked. Marie is naked. I stand back and
admire her body. I recognize the spiders covering her skin:
mesothelae, the most primitive suborder.

Suddenly, I remember the man who was with her. And
I’m uncertain, confused. I say, “What about . . .” — I don’t
know his name.

“Sam’s in the living room. Can he . . .” — Marie smiles
coyly — “. . . can he join us?”

I remember his strong body, also tattooed with spiders.
I grin. “Yes. He’s beautiful. I like his smile.”

Sam and Marie are asleep. I gently disentangle myself,
get dressed, and walk through their apartment. I see
spider motifs everywhere: statuettes, urns, paintings,
photographs, even whimsical stuff like wallpaper and
knobs. There are intact spider webs hanging in corners and
from furniture. I find the bathroom; I pee, but I don’t flush
for fear of waking Sam and Marie. The shower curtain has
childlike printed drawings of crawling spiders.

I belong here. I need to belong here.

I find a pen and a pad of paper next to the phone on
the kitchen counter, and I leave a note on the top sheet,
with my phone number. I’m shocked when I realize that
I’m about to write “I love you.” But I don’t. I flee, feeling
exposed, vulnerable.

As soon as I close the door to my apartment, exhaustion
catches up to me. It’s dawn now. I pull out the foldout couch,
and I drop on the bed without even taking my clothes off,
eager to sleep.

But I’m too restless; I can’t get comfortable. Then I’m hit
by a headache from being so tired.

I get up again, take my clothes off. I get a face cloth from
the bathroom, run cold water on it, and go back to bed,
pressing the wet compress over my forehead.

The headache subsides, and I feel my body relaxing,
going through the transition from wakefulness to sleep.
But then my skin crawls with goosebumps, my nose and
ears get maddeningly itchy. I’m about to scratch when I feel
something move across the palm of my hand.

I fling the compress from my eyes. There are spiders all
over my body. Common house spiders crawl into my nose,
my ears, my mouth. And there are more of them on the bed,
converging on me. Soon, I’ll be entirely covered in spiders.

I’ve loved spiders my entire life. Nevertheless, I scream.
More spiders crawl down my throat. My arms lie still,
refusing to obey my frantic commands to swat away the
arthropods.

There’s a loud banging at the door. My landlord shouts:
“What’s going on in there? If you don’t open up, I’m going to
unlock the door and come in.”

The spiders scurry away. I stop screaming, and I have
just enough time to pull the sheets over me as the landlord
bursts into my small apartment, wide-eyed and anxious.

My breath is laboured, my throat parched. I try to talk,
but the words won’t come out.

The landlord’s face flickers between embarrassment
and irritation. He looks around, and says, “What’s with
all the cobwebs? Don’t you ever clean this place? Fucking
students.”

Finally I say, taking deep breaths between each syllable,
“Just a nightmare. Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

When I start crying, he leaves without another word.

I take down my website and email the lawyer to inform
him that I’ve complied with his request. Then I forage for
spiders, and I gather them into a plastic container. I let
them loose in the backyard. I fill up a bucket with soapy
water, and I scrub the whole apartment carefully, getting
rid of all the spider webs.

Marie doesn’t call.

She doesn’t call the next day, either. Nor the day after that.
Nor . . .

I finish my history paper barely in time, although I had
to miss a few classes. There are notes online, so I should
be okay as long as I keep up with the readings. I immerse
myself in schoolwork.

I try not to think of Marie.

It’s been almost two weeks since that night.

Someone’s knocking at my door, firmly but not too loudly. I
glance at my alarm clock. It’s 2:00 a.m., but I wasn’t asleep.

I barely sleep at all anymore.

I pull on some shorts and a T-shirt. I open the door. It’s
Sam.

“Hey,” he says.

I don’t say anything. I shiver, and then I nod him in. I
turn on a lamp, one that’s not too bright.

He slowly walks through the apartment, peering at
everything, running his fingers on the spines of my spider
books, smiling at my Spiderkid merchandise, frowning at
the scrubbed walls.

I stand immobile, watching him. He’s wearing jeans, a
white T-shirt, and a jean jacket. He walks with grace and
strength.

Finally he sits down at the kitchen table.

I say, “Want some tea?”

“Sure. That would be good.”

We don’t speak while I make the tea.

I get a fresh lemon from the fridge and cut it up in
wedges. I put the wedges in a small bowl, and I put it down
on the table. I take out two mugs, two teaspoons, a jar of
honey. Then I bring the steaming teapot over to where he
sits, and I sit, too.

While the tea steeps, Sam says, “Marie was moved that
you’re still wearing the necklace.” He reaches out toward my
throat, and I make an effort not to flinch. He presses his
fingers tenderly on the effigy of Nyiko. I realize now that I’ve
haven’t taken it off since the night I met them, since I saw
Marie again.

He says, “Nyiko. Spiderkid. Arachne. Anansi. They’re all
degraded memories of God. Of the primordial Spider who
wove the universe into being.”

Suddenly, I’m impatient and irritable. I ask, sharply, “Why
are you here? What do you want?”

“Right. It’s Marie. She’s been a wreck. She can’t sleep.
All she can think about is you, and you stay away. Don’t you
love her?”

“But she hasn’t called me. I left my number. I wanted — ”

“The way you snuck away . . . and that cold, impersonal
note. Marie’s afraid that you’re not sure if you want to
be with her anymore. If you’re going to toy with her . . .
fuck. I don’t know whether to drag you back or scare you
away.” I look down at his hands, and I see his fists tighten
in frustration. “She admires you. She’s always wanted to
be together with you again. But she was afraid that you’d
moved on after that mess with your families and wouldn’t
want her anymore. Her whole life has been upended. She
needs you to be clear about what you want.”

I meet his eyes, and I see how much he cares for her.
Something breaks inside me; I know that I’m beginning
to love him.

We’ve got a bottle of wine going. The three of us are
packing up my stuff; the process is neither efficient nor
rapid. There’s a lot of laughter, kidding around, kissing,
and groping.

We
began
early
Saturday
morning.
We
finally
get
everything into boxes as the Sunday morning sun rises.

We go out for breakfast, and then Sam leaves to get the
rental truck, so we can move me into their apartment. Our
apartment, Marie corrects me.

Marie and Sam sit across from me on the floor of the living
room. We’re all naked. I stare at the spiders tattooed all
over their bodies. Between us, there’s a sealed clay urn
decorated with a painting of a giant mesothele spider.