4. Pulling Away From the Spiders
(Survival Ain't Pretty 4 of 6)
(In opening up the novel into novellas, I can expand on parts I sacrificed to the velocity of plot. Earlier, I made the decision to take Maria off-island with her father after her assault. These chapters catch up with her while the Inspector is closing in on Tommy. In a novel, I might alternate it. Now, Maria has her own novella.)
Even with the new mattress, Maria wasn’t sleeping. Not really.
The dream returned. She didn’t need to write down or do anything to remember it.
In the silent house, amid the suburban sounds, she stared up at the ceiling. Were she on the island, in her own bed, she would scroll through her phone.
That was over.
Instead, Maria saw Julian waving to her from the top of the windmill. He was glowing, against the stars. He watched her window, then he took the long dive into the harbor.
She thought he was dead.
But then she dreamed the dream again. And she saw the look on his face as he waved to her.
Maybe he wasn’t gone.
Maybe he got beat up and lost his phone. Maybe his dad had done it. He had beaten him before. With one hand.
Maybe.
It was magical thinking. She made it all up, she clung to it. It wasn’t real, but it could be if magic could happen.
So her heart was feeding her the poison of hope.
On the morning of the fourth day, Maria resolved to speak.
It had been a pleasure to be silent. Her father didn’t expect her to say anything, nor did Belinda. If she could have made herself deaf, she would have done that as well. She had slipped into a pleasant sonic cocoon, where she didn’t have to interact with anyone. It was almost like being in the womb.
Which was a funny thing to think as she knelt in the bathroom over the toilet.
If there was some place she could run to, or some convent that would take her in, she would seriously think about it. A bedroom and corridors of silence, averted eyes, and prayer.
It was worth a thought.
As she felt her stomach contract again.
Maria knew, deep in the darkness of her heart, that she could never find peace as a bride of Christ. She was her father’s daughter. She could blow her nose farmer style, pee in the woods, and look you square in the eye. Even now—especially now—she was the girl in work boots on the roof, walking the roofline with a whirligig over her shoulder. If the convent had a barn or a farm or something, maybe there might be something for her to do. But she didn’t quilt, bake, or mend.
But she suspected that, even in the convent, she would keep having dreams about her Brazilian boy.
Maria went back to her bedroom and resumed her study of the ceiling. Her stomach gurgled, but seemed to have settled down for the moment. The ceiling had long trails of cobwebs, thickened in the corners, but spread across the expanse. One long cord of cobweb stretched from wall to wall, about three feet above her head. It had been the work of generations.
She could only see the work in the morning light, when the beams cut across the room and the shadows highlighted the filigree of the arachnids.
It disgusted her. It horrified her that she had slept for three nights in this room, underneath the labor of the spiders. But when her stomach settled, she was impressed at the time, the labor, the design created in order to catch, to feed, and then to reproduce. They labored to keep the cathedral sound.
Maria would not destroy it.
But she would abandon it. This room was theirs, it was not hers.
In the end, the spiders gave her her tongue back.
Dressed, Maria sat downstairs at the kitchen table when Belinda roared in off the night shift. Maria had put the Krugerand in her front left pant pocket.
Belinda glanced at the girl when she came in.
“Good morning.”
“Morning.” Her voice was hoarse.
“Nice to see you.”
Maria attempted to smile at her.
“How do you feel?” Belinda asked. She had asked this question twelve times that night.
“Okay. Better.”
“Good. Can I get you anything?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
“You guys have filled my refrigerator. Do you want a Pop-Tart?”
“No, thanks.”
“Thanks for doing all sorts of work here. I just crash in this house. I appreciate the back steps and the kitchen and everything else.”
“My Dad can’t sit still.”
“I know. He has always been that way. He needs to fix things.”
Maria nodded. Belinda realized what she had just tripped over.
“I really do appreciate the work. And it appears I have picked up a sofa and a mattress.”
“I hope that’s okay.”
“It’s fucking great.”
Maria felt so much better when the language went blue.
Belinda stood by the sink, eating an untoasted frosted cinnamon Pop-Tart. Rick had remembered that she liked them when she was twelve. That was who he was and had always been.
“How was work?”
“Busy and unfortunate.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We saved more than we lost tonight.”
Maria nodded.
Her father, Rick, appeared in a few minutes. He hadn’t showered and he was wearing yesterday’s jeans, but he heard his daughter’s crackling voice and knew that hygiene could wait.
“Morning,” he nodded.
“Hi, Dad.”
He made sure not to react to this. Instead, one of the additions to the house had been a coffee maker. He switched it on and set it to gurgling through Green Mountain Roasters Nantucket Blend. Drink the coffee even if you can’t see the ocean.
He assembled his cream and sugar, and a black “Medflight” mug.
“I was just thanking Maria for all of the work and money you have spent,”
Rick shrugged. “I should have done more over the years.”
“No,” Belinda said. “But I appreciate the work you have done.”
Rick understood that if it was time for thanks, it was also time to go. Which he hadn’t thought of.
When his coffee had been assembled, and a bowl of Captain Crunch had been made manifest at the breakfast table, he sat down.
Belinda felt that she needed to be there as well. She leaned up against the kitchen sink.
“So,” Rick looked at his daughter.
She inhaled and exhaled.
“I think it might be time for me to go back.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
“You could stay here. I have a new mattress and sheets,” Belinda added.
“I know.”
“It might be easier here,” Rick added.
“I don’t think so,” Maria added.
Belinda tried to speak gracefully. “We have a lot of people out here that could help you.”
Rick looked at his daughter as the word hit her.
“I need help, you think?”
“Oh, Honey…” Belinda began.
“Yes,” Rick interrupted his sister. “You have been in a swamp of shit.”
Maria settled in.
The silence built.
“Honey, I don’t know anything about what you have gone through. I can build steps and use a lathe, but I don’t think I can help you the way you need help.”
“Nothing happened.”
She said it, but her spirit wasn’t in it. Belinda kept her face still and her mouth shut. It’s a lot easier getting someone help when they are bleeding.
“We have to make some decisions. All of us want the best for you.”
Belinda nodded.
For the first time in the morning, Maria wished she could be silent again.
But she nodded.
They would spend another day, and then go home on the late boat tomorrow.
She saw Julian, atop the windmill, waving to her.
She had to know.
The Inn on Brant Point (Novella)
Milestone 1: The Boy Who Climbed the Windmill
Milestone 2: Remember
Milestone 3: Snitches Get Stitches
Milestone 4: Survival Ain’t Pretty
2. She Could Recognize Trauma When It Woke Up in her House.
Some of my writing…
Barr’s For Life: A substack of essays and claptrap
The Boat at the End of Lover’s Lane
(NEW) The Girl Who Ran the Polpis Road
The Inn on Brant Point (Novella)
Her Lover on Monomoy Road. (Novella)
Her Father Came Home to Deacon’s Way (Novella)
Love Letters (Novella)
The Fisher King (Novella)
The Costs of Faith (novella)
Winter: A Collection of Island Living Essays set between January and April 1.
The Boys: A collection of essays about my two sons, written as they grew.
Rolling in the Surf: Essays on Teaching.
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I am working against Slop. I have used AI before but I was convinced that if I looked at some art on the web, I could find some work that would illustrate what I want AND bring more resonance. Hello, Picasso. the only problem is the search. If I search "anguished girl sitting at a table" 9 out of 10 images will be AI. The other one will be Shutterstock. I just have to get better at searching, but slop is everywhere.
The spider web metaphor is so powerfull here! The way Maria sees their labor as both horrifying and impressive - that "cathedral" they built - and how it gives her her tongue back is beautifull. I love how you use small details like that to show character recovery without making it feel forced. The lathe line from her dad also hit home - sometimes our practical skills are all we can offer when words fail us.