ARR 1988 - Flipbook - Page 25
beer when she stopped, can in mid-air. Sure enough, the little flower was
nodding gently. No doubt about it! Mary B. collapsed in her chair and almost
screamed with fear.
"I'm going crazy, she whispered. "That blow on my head made me see
things. Flowers can't talk. I'm going nuts. Oh dear. Oh Mary, Mother of
Jesus, protect me."
She huddled in her chair with arms wrapped around her legs for
several minutes until curiosity got the better ofher and, leaning forward, she
saw a thin silvery line extending from the flower up into a corner of the
window and realized what it was. A whole circle of lines were suspended in
mid-air and attached in several places to Ophelia-Joy's stems. In the middle
of the circle, furiously wrestling with a wayward moth, was a big black
spider. Obviously, during her absence the creature had wandered in her
window, God only knew from where, had spun its web and made her plant
partofitshome. That was what wasmakingtheflowernod. Oh, thank Mary
and all the saints of Heaven. She was not going crazy after all. But a spider?
The black legs working up and down, as if they were dancing on sticky,
surgarcoated threads, made Mary B's skin crawl. So black, that spider. So
grim.
After giving Ophelia-Joy a generous drink, she sat back to watch her
uninvited tenant enjoy that beer after a long dry spell. She didn't know
whether to laugh or cry so did a bit of both.
"Imagine that," she whispered as she watched the drama of the now
exhausted moth and the agressive spider which was busily wrapping its
future dinner around and around with silvery strands. "I won't have to worry
about moths flying around in here."
Then a rather darkening thought came and she paused before she took
that last swallow of beer. She stared fearfully at the new interloper and
leaned toward Ophelia-Joy, whispered behind her hand, conspiratorial,
mocking distress.
"Mother of Jesus, do you suppose spiders like beer?"
Ophelia-Joy seemed to be considering the possibilities, but Mary B.
broke in, gently stroking the edges of the dark-rimmed leaves. "If they do,
let's pray to all the saints that this little bugger is a teetotaler!"
Jann Helms McCord
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