I shattered the glass cup on the floor with a violent, downward slam. The impact spot left an intricate spider web pattern on the linoleum floor, radiating outward from a single, white point. I looked at my hand to see that a shard had sliced my finger, but through my hot adrenaline I had not felt the sting. I got up and collected bandages from a nearby drawer, applying them as I could between pitches.
She came partway down the stairs in the adjacent room and called out, “What was that?”
“Chapman just gave up the lead,” I called back.
“What was that crash?”
“I dropped my cup.”
“Are you going to clean it up?”
“Yes, yes, of course I’m going to clean it up. Just after this inning.”
I heard her walk the rest of the steps, eventually striding into the den. She looked around at the scattered pieces of glass, studying them with that New York scowl she wears, and went to a brown cupboard behind me and got out a thick, old school broom, the kind that gave you splinters every time you used it.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m cleaning up all this broken glass.”
“Why’re you doing that? I said I was going to do it.”
“After the inning, is what you said. I’ll just do it right now.”
“Honey, please don’t do that. I’ll clean up.”
“No, really, it’s okay.”
“Honey, put down the broom, I can handle it.”
“I know you can handle it, but I’m going to help. That’s what I do. I’m a helper.”
“Why don’t you think I can clean up some broken glass? I broke the damn cup, for Christ’s sake. It’s no problem for me to do it.”
“I know you can, but you aren’t so I’ll just do it for you.”
The inning ended behind me as she put her hands on her hips and I had my hands rubbing my face. I knew I was trapped in this argument, that I had walked unwittingly into a spider’s den.
“Give me the broom.”
“No, no. Go watch the game.”
“Olivia, give me the broom. I’ll do it right now.”
“I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t like your help; you don’t do it right.”
“I can’t sweep up glass correctly?”
The next inning started, but that game had become background noise. I was determined to win this game and I could see in her New York scowl that she was just as energized to pull out some kind of victory over me. My blood was still up from the smashing of the cup.
“No, you can’t,” I responded, unaware that if I had just attempted sarcasm, it had failed. I thought it was still relevant, as I always found myself redoing much of the work she did when she went into a craze of helping. She would often organize my collection of records alphabetically by name of album when I wasn’t paying attention, but I would undo what she had done at my first opportunity as I prefer them in order of artist.
I frequently wondered if she thought that this pro-activity made her a better partner.
“That’s ridiculous,” she said, derailing my train of thought.
“Just go back upstairs.”
“You’re incredible. We’re literally talking about a thirty second clean-up.”
“What does that mean?”
“We’re married now,” she said, as if she was reminding me, “and you don’t trust me enough to sweep up some broken glass?”
“No, that’s not what I said, what I said was- “
She cut me off, “You said that you didn’t want my help, that I didn’t do it right. Whatever the hell that means.”
“If you’ll let me finished,” I shot back, my voice hostile, “what I said was that I didn’t want you cleaning up a mess that wasn’t yours. I didn’t say that I didn’t trust you.”
“I wonder if you even know you’re lying.”
I balled my fists. I was struck with a quick recollection of my father having done something similar when I was eight. It was disjointing to have to focus on an involuntary memory and have an argument with my wife at the same moment.
He had been watching a baseball game and, just as his team gave up the lead, he smashed his favorite whiskey tumbler on the floor. He told my mother that he was trying to kill a spider. He was an aggressive man and the strength of his arm sent glass sliding all over our small, linoleum floor. The glass had given him a cut on his finger, but he didn’t have it bandaged until after the game had ended.
I remembered having to sweep the glass up for him, looking and not finding the body of the spider he said he saw. He shouted at me as I blocked the television set with the broomstick, swatting at the air near my hair to get me to move out of his way. It had felt like I was nothing more than the help, that I was an annoyance to him no different than a spider on the floor.
“I just wanted to watch the game in peace and quiet. Was that too much to ask? Don’t I get at least that?”
“I want you to trust me.”
“Honey, I love you. You know I love you.”
She scoffed, “You used to be a real man. When did you become such a coward?”
She walked out the room, back toward the stairs. I breathed heavily in and out through my nose, counting to ten, before I went to follow her to continue the argument over which one of us earned the privilege of sweeping up broken glass.
As I walked to the stairs, I turned to see a giant, brown tarantula crouched on the steps. Its monstrous, disgusting body sat motionless, glistening under the artificial light and covering much of the staircase. Its glass eyes stared unblinking. I could see the individual, transparent hairs that encased all eight of its massive legs as they shone under our white, popcorn ceiling. It scurried quickly backwards as it saw me, up a few steps and further pushing itself into the stairs.
