The Evening Spider by Emily Arsenault Read Free Book Online

weeks and months that followed. You needn’t pretend that wasn’t the case.
    While I was physically recovered, I still allowed Clara—when she was about—and Tessa to take on more of the maternal responsibilities than was necessary or perhaps appropriate.
    It felt so much easier to take on the simpler duties—the peeling of potatoes or the washing of clothes. Care of the baby, by contrast, seemed to require so many decisions—significant ones. Such a tiny and incommunicative creature—I didn’t trustmyself to know always when she was hungry, when her aches and cries were typical, and when they required more serious attention or medical advice. It seemed best to let those judgments fall occasionally upon others—not solely on the abilities of my meek and recovering mind. The child’s chances seemed better that way. Any child’s chances would be better that way, would they not?
    On the night of the terrible incident, however, Martha was in my care alone. Unless one counts Matthew, and I don’t think one should. He was downstairs, reading his newspaper. He never played any part in Martha’s bedtime.
    I was feeling fatigued that evening—more than usual. All day Martha had had some sort of stomach complaint, and nothing seemed to soothe her. After a simple supper, I retired to our bedroom with her. Under normal circumstances I would have nursed her and then laid her down in her cradle. I was so tired, though, and she was so unsettled, that I nursed her on our bed. She fell asleep more promptly than I expected, but I was not in a rush to get her into her cradle. I waited some minutes, dozing and daydreaming and waiting for her to fall into a deeper sleep, so my transporting her wouldn’t rouse her. As I lay there, I saw a small but thick-legged spider crawling across the ceiling, just above us.
    In general, I am quite fond of spiders. I admire their industry—and at times their efficient savagery. Yet I do not wish to share a bed with one. I had a vision of the spider falling into my hair—or onto Martha’s bald head—at night. I also took a notion to seeing the creature up close. I believe you know this about me—and knew it even then—that when I’m fatigued or nervous, I find my brain focuses more easily on smallthings. In that moment, the spider seemed like a small gift from Providence—like finding a flower on a gloomy day, or coming across an old letter from a loved one at a moment when its kind words are most needed. (I have never received any letters here, by the way, Harry. But I still know the feeling of needing—or hoping for—small mercies.)
    I picked up Matthew’s Bible and stood very gingerly on the edge of the bed, careful not to step near Martha. Using the Bible, I plucked the spider more easily from the ceiling than I’d anticipated. Perhaps the creature knew my intentions were benevolent? Surprised, I jumped off the bed rather hastily, and rushed my tiny passenger to the window. Thinking about it later, I believe it was my haste that jostled little Martha’s position on the bed. At the time, though, I was eager to get the creature to the window. I pulled at the window but had great difficulty opening it with one hand. I paused to watch the spider, as it had stopped moving. It looked stunned. I wondered if it was watching me, if it trusted me—if it should trust me. Its legs moved slightly, then stopped, as if it was contemplating bolting, then decided against it.
    In that moment I heard the terrible thump, and then the screams. Martha had rolled off the bed. I cried out and flung the Bible to the floor. When I rushed to her, there was already blood streaming from a gash by her eyebrow. She had apparently hit her poor little face on the bedside table on her way down.
    As I applied my sleeve to it, I saw the spider crawl across my palm and onto Martha’s nightdress. I shouted and swiped it away