there are weeks that go by in which my day job overtakes my life. this past month has been no exception. by the time i arrive home all i want are--and in this order--a pair of comfy pants, a less-confining bra, a old, worn t-shirt, and a tall glass of cold milk.
then it's hugs from man, and cuddles from cat, and a book opened in my lap.
of late it's been all i can to do read anything other than pd james. years ago one of my well-intentioned aunts gave me a paper sack filled with mysteries and other assorted books. this was when i was about twelve, give or take, and completely bored with what i was reading. it's been twenty years since then, and i've no clue of what your average twelve-year-old reads these days, but to give you an idea of where i was at:
when dad went away on work he'd come back with these little nancy drew books -- case files. they were interesting and held my attention for their time span...about an hour. my parents are not big readers, and those books he brought as gifts were the only books i owned well into my teens. (along with an astrology book. don't ask. or maybe later.)
one night when my parents were out at their bowling league i discovered a copy of james michener's hawaii downstairs, on a shelf with a book penned by lee iaccoca webster's dictionary, and an atlas. i gobbled that up like a starving child and by the time bowling was done, convinced myself that i was a leper.
i think it was the summer afterward that my aunt gave me the bag. it was white paper with these twisted paper handles -- nothing like that at our house, as it came from herberger's, and heaven forbid we shop anywhere above k-mart. the bag alone was a treat and i remember treating it as if it were made of ivory, and not fiber.
anyway, in the bag was a pile of pd james, martha grimes, one dorothy sayers, jean auel's clan of the cave bear, and stephen king's the eyes of the dragon. there were also a few lillian jackson braun books in there--what my aunt called "popcorn," since they were quick reads.
i've seen movies in which people open chests of gold, and it shines back in their faces like the sun. that was me, with this heap of ink.
that fall we moved, and my mother, who encouraged library usage, found herself ferrying us to the library more and more often. i was careful to choose enough books to tide me over until the pile was due, and then i'd inveigle myself into the suburban when mom went to work, and take the bus from there to the library.
i motored my way through every mystery i could find. the following year i wanted to impress a boy on whom i had a horrid crush, and when i saw him reading piers anthony's a spell for chameleon, i found that in the library, too.
as a reader i was fearless. in books i could escape and adventure ever so safely, while in reality i was the red-headed, slightly plump target for schoolyard bullies. i was afraid of everything outside of those pages, and yet those pages were what showed me things so much more horrific than my own petty scares.
***
bees have long been a phobia--that heavy buzz, the thick abodomen. there is something about a bee that raises alarm in me. there's no reason for my fear, since i love flowers and fruits and honey, and bees are somewhat integral to those items. over time i've squelched my greatest of those fears, however, and can remain seated, if with thudding heart, when one swings close.
there is one other bug, however, that i cannot stand.
the other day i was in the downstairs bathroom when i saw something moving across the floorboards. at first i thought it was a mouse, and laughed at the thought of my two sedentary cats trying their paw at catching it. then i realized it was an insect of some kind, and gradually realized it was a centipede.
when i was a kid we had centipedes all over the house in wisconsin, until dad sprayed insecticide. you had to check your shoes before you put them on, etc. nasty things. either way, they've been part of my fears as long as i can recall.
and i was stuck in the bathroom with this beastie.
for a good long second i didn't move, as if like the dinosaur in jurassic park the insect would not see me, if i did not move. it sped under the door and was gone.
i found a bottle of windex and, thus prepped, opened the door, fully expecting to see it flowing across the white linoleum. but it wasn't there. it was climbing swiftly up the door.
after a great deal of histrionic gasping and shouting, during which my cats stared at me in terror, i was able to subdue the thing with the bottom of the windex bottle and a puddle of blue liquid, and it was subsequently flushed.
in the end i resolved to conquer my fear by overload. for an hour i read online about how to rid the house of these pests, and how they actually were fairly beneficial: as carnivores, they scour your floors for other bugs, and have no interest in humanity.
***
my latest pd james is "the maul and the pear tree," a co-written account of two brutal murders in 1811 london, nearly eighty years before a man stalked whitechapel and made a name for himself with a knife.
the murders are shocking in their own right--the marrs and their three-month-old baby and servant boy, and the williamsons and their servant--but worse is reading them and knowing that the powers of detection at the disposal of regency police was so terribly...minimal.
the prime suspect in the murders was never able to be actually questioned at the inquest; he hung himself, thereby cementing any doubts that he was guilty.
heaven forbid that he was not.
either way, it reminded me of how different things are, two hundred-and-some years down the line. it reminded me of how terrified i am--this grown woman, nearly hopping onto her coffee table to avoid an insect smaller than a quarter. i feel nearly desensitized to the horrors that await me within a novel's pages, but that one scurrying creature turns me into a child of twelve again, gasping for air as my mother hands me a paper bag.
perhaps lately i crave that delicious English rhythm of pd james. i don't know. books are comforting to me in ways that i cannot explain. when in stress i turn to a select few, again and again. lately work has been stress--which is why i put my hands on james' detective dalgliesh and take comfort.
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