And then the light of the setting sun had reached the window and lit up the globes, changing their color from white to every shade imaginable, painting the opposing wall with a magical light show. An old rock album my father used to play—he never threw out his scratchy vinyl LPs—had a psychedelic song with lyrics about a valley of trees with prism leaves that broke the light into colors “that no one knows the names of.” Bad English on their part but it perfectly described what I was seeing. Some of the colors splashing on that wall were like no hue I’d ever imagined. I’d never taken LSD, but I wondered if someone on an acid trip might experience colors like these.
Finally the sun set and the light show faded.
I wandered to the kitchen where I heated up a can of chicken noodle soup and forced myself to eat.
Night had fallen by the time I returned to Ellie’s room, but a street light shining outside was now illuminating the globes from below, creating intricate designs on the wall and ceiling. As I gazed at the patterns, I noticed an odd stippling. I stepped to the window for a closer look at the globes themselves and saw that they’d developed finely speckled defects in their cores. An effect from the sunlight?
Finally, I could take the silence no longer. I dropped to my hands and knees and crawled a short way into the passage. I hadn’t brought the penlight and inky blackness stretched before me.
“It’s me, Ellie,” I called.
Her voice echoed back. “I know.”
“I’m not coming in, I just wanted to check on how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine, Mother.”
“Are you ever coming out?”
“I’ll be ready to leave day after tomorrow.”
“Day after—? Why so long?”
“Certain things can’t be rushed, Mother. But we’ll go out for a nice walk then.”
A walk? Looking like that? She couldn’t be serious.
I let it pass. She was talking about something a day and a half away. A day and a half of this horror would feel like a lifetime.
To change the subject I said, “The colors were as beautiful as you said they’d be.”
“I’m glad. I wish I could have seen them.”
“By the way, your globes have developed little specks at their centers.”
“Oh, good.”
“Good?”
“It’s part of the process.”
“What—?”
“I’m tired now, mother. I need to sleep. You should sleep too.”
“Oh, yes, well, right…”
Dismissed again.
“Night, Mother.”
“Good night, Ellie.”
I backed out in a daze, nearly undone by the surreality of the situation…saying a casual-sounding good night to my daughter who’d been turned into some sort of hideous arachnid and was hanging onto the wall of a cave at the end of a passage to some sort of alternate dimension. Was I losing my mind, or was it already gone?
Back in the room I noticed that the specks within the globes seemed larger. A closer look showed they had indeed grown, and had sprouted many wriggly little legs.
HARI
They’d rented two rooms—two—at the Renaissance on State Street in downtown Albany, had a big dinner of steaks and a delicious Ripasso, and then she and Donny went their separate ways.
Hari had just finished rearranging the umpteen pillows on her king-size bed and settled back to browse the movie selections when someone knocked on her door.
“Now what?” she muttered as she padded across the room and peeked through the peephole.
Donny.
She pulled open the door and there he stood with a bucket of ice and a very large bottle of Patrón Silver.
“Room service,” he said with a grin.
If he was thinking he could ply her with tequila and join her between the sheets, he had another think coming. He didn’t know about her hollow leg. But the tequila looked good.
The room was listed as “deluxe”—hey, Art was paying—and had a little sitting area. Very soon they were relaxing with glasses of Patrón on the rocks.
“So let me ask you something,” Donny said.
Hari made a face. “Are you going to ruin this with chatter?”
“Seriously, I like to get to know the people I’m working with.”
Here we go: Let’s see if we can soften her up.
“Why?”
“I just do. So tell me: Are you a cat person or a dog person.”
“Do I look like a cat lady?”
“I said ‘person.’”
“Neither.”
“No pets?”
“Didn’t say that. I have a pet crab.”
“Can we be serious, maybe just for one minute?”
“I am serious. Her name is Pokey and she’s an Atlantic blue crab. Callinectes salpidus. Means ‘beautiful swimmer.’”
His face took on a look of wonder. “You’re serious.”
“I am. Pokey and I got off to a rocky start. I added her to my fish tank and she gobbled up a couple grand worth of tropicals I had there. I was planning on sautéing and eating her as a soft shell during her next molt but grew attached. I can’t say we’re good buddies, but we’ve achieved détente.”
His expression remained dubious as he added more Patrón to both their glasses. “Seriously? You have a pet crab?”
“I believe I’ve answered that.”
He said nothing for a few heartbeats, then, “Okay, this is where you ask me about my pets.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t care about your pets.”
Okay, that sounded harsh. She hadn’t said it to hurt him, and she might have found a gentler way to phrase it were it not for the tequila mixing with the wine from dinner—in vino veritas and all that—but no matter: It rolled right off him and he launched into a lengthy discourse on how he’d always had a dog as a kid and would have one now if his schedule would allow it, blah-blah-blah. He kept the tequila flowing while
