Caitlin Kiernan - Silk

Spyder selected another ball bearing and placed it on the next mark, clack, and she repeated the action over and over, clack, clack, clack, but never twice from the same mark, choosing each bearing and taking care to be sure it started its brief journey toward the center from the next mark in. Sometimes she paused between ball bearings, paused and stared at the bedspread, out the window and then back. Once or twice she stopped long enough to measure the shrinking space between the floor and the bowling ball with her yardstick. Spyder chewed at her bottom lip, something urgent in her blue eyes.

Niki’s legs were getting tired, and she wanted to sit down, too afraid of interrupting to even move. Her kneecaps were starting to ache. She wanted to say, “What the hell are you doing, Spyder?” What anyone else would have said right at the start, but then she wouldn’t have seen even this much, and never mind if it didn’t make any sense, that didn’t mean it wasn’t important. And if Spyder wouldn’t tell her what was going on, all she could do was ignore her stiffening legs, be patient, watch, figure it all out for herself. Like a puzzle, like a child’s dot-to-dot. Draw the lines and there’s the picture, Mickey Mouse or a bouquet of flowers or whatever had driven Spyder crazy.

There weren’t many bearings left in the tub; and Spyder had to lean way over to set them on the marks now, hardly any time after she let go before the clack of metal against hard plastic. The bedspread was almost touching the floor, and Niki could see where the weave was beginning to ravel from all that weight. Spyder worked like she was running out of time, just one or two bearings left to go; Niki had to piss so bad she was afraid she was gonna have to show herself soon or wet the floor.

The last ball bearing glinted in Spyder’s hand, dull reflection of the sun through the window, and there was a slow ripping sound. Spyder grabbed something off the floor, a moment before Niki saw it was a roll of duct tape, used her teeth to tear off a strip and she was reaching for the rift opening beneath the bowling ball when the bedspread tore all the way open, dropping everything out the bottomside. The bowling ball fell three or four inches, thud and barely missed crushing Spyder’s fingers. Niki felt the vibration where she stood watching as the ball bearings spilled out and rolled away in every direction.

“Fuck,” Spyder whispered, and then she sat silently beneath the ruined bedspread and stared at the hole, the last ball bearing forgotten in her fingers.

One of the silver balls rolled into the living room and bumped to a stop against Niki’s foot. She bent down and picked it up, not caring now if Spyder saw her or not, knowing whatever was happening had happened. One word, printed around the circumference of the bearing, one word that didn’t mean anything to Niki, but she thought maybe she was starting to understand the whole thing, the dot-to-dot secret, the marks Spyder had drawn for her, and she wondered what was written on that last one, the one Spyder still held. And then she realized that Spyder was crying, very softly, and went to her.

Monday, another lazy short day that the winter-brilliant sun, warm and washed-out honey, made lazier, took its own sweet time getting up over the top of the mountain. Filtered down through the trees and all those TV towers, into the house, first the windows on the east side where Spyder and Niki were still sleeping sometime after noon. Spyder woke first, her arms around Niki, holding her close, and the sun hung itself on the wall over them, big yellow-orange splotch like a saint’s nimbus or halo, and Spyder watched it closely, suspiciously. Niki was snoring, not a loud ragged boy snore but the sort of sound a cat makes if its sleep is uneasy, and Spyder held her tighter.

She could feel the world still slipping away around her, not the jolts that had come at first; a slow, steady creep now that didn’t ever stop, or slow down, or get any faster, no matter how hard she held on. No matter that she’d sealed up the room. No matter that she watched the trapdoor to the basement to be sure it stayed closed. Spyder looked away from the sun spot on the wall, buried her face in the clean smell of Niki’s hair. Robin’s hair had always smelled of ammonia and hair dye, and Niki’s hair just smelled clean, like hair and baby shampoo.

“Wake up,” she whispered, too quiet to actually wake Niki, pressed her lips against an earlobe, gently tested the steel rings there with her teeth.

“Wake up, Niki,” a little louder this time, just a little, and Niki mumbled something through her sleep and curled into a smaller fetus. Spyder kissed a spot on her cheek, next to her ear, felt the downy hairs there brush her own rough lips.

And that sensation again, less and less time between them every day, dizzy naked feeling, like she was falling and there was absolutely nothing anywhere beneath her, or above, like she’d fall forever. Spyder squeezed Niki, held on, waiting it out, the sensation, the sudden, hollow certainty, perception her doctors would have called delusion, or just panic attacks, and then tell her to take more pills to make it stop. And she wanted it to stop, but she wanted it to stop because it was over, because she’d found a way back, a way to put everything back right again, didn’t just want to take pills that made it harder to feel, harder to trust what she felt and saw and heard, and knew.

And then it was gone again and there was only Niki in her arms and the sun on the wall, the itch beneath her skin that she couldn’t ever reach.

“Niki,” she said. “Wake up, please,” and this time Niki rolled over and stared up at Spyder. Sleepy dumb grin, and she rubbed at her eyes.

“Hi there,” she said and nuzzled against Spyder’s T-shirt, nuzzled in between Spyder’s breasts. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” Spyder said. “Not too late, I don’t think. Are you hungry?”

“Mhmmm,” and Niki kissed her, slipped her tongue quick between Spyder’s teeth, and she was still surprised, even though Niki had kissed her so many times, and it still made her think about Robin and feel guilty.

“I meant for food,” she said, and Niki kissed her again, put her hands underneath Spyder’s shirt, small cold hands against Spyder’s chest, waking up her nipples, making them hard. “Coffee,” Niki said, and Spyder frowned.

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“Never mind then,” and now her head was under the shirt, making Mr. Fiend’s face bulge way out like he was pulling himself free of the cloth and silkscreen ink. Niki’s mouth, warm and wet around her left nipple, teasing tongue, tooth play, and Spyder kissed the top of her head through the shirt.

Niki sucked her nipple harder, wrapped both arms around firm muscle and the little bit of fat on Spyder’s belly. Spyder let her own hands wander down Niki’s back, no shirt in the way, just a bra strap before the small of her back, skin like satin, so much softer than Robin, no hard edges, no bones showing through.

And instead of the bottomless feeling, Spyder felt something else, something almost like the way she’d once felt with them all here around her, like things might be all right, if she could be sane a little while, careful, and then Niki’s fingers were inside her boxers, tangling themselves in her thick pubic hair, her sex cupped in Niki’s hand like fruit. Aching tingle when Niki’s middle finger brushed her labia, velvet probe, and then slipped inside. Spyder shivered and there was simply no way to hold Niki close enough, to take her in and bind that sense of security, of oneness and belonging, so it wouldn’t bleed away, wouldn’t desert her, leave her dangling between the nowheres above and below and within when it was over, soon, when Niki pulled her hand away, pulled her head from under the shirt and went to make coffee. Everything was always already over before it began.