“My goodness, it’s Christmas time again,” said old Aunt Sallie. “Wonder what the Claus brought you this year?”“Socks,” said little Agamemnon, disbelieving. “And turtle eggs.”
“Chinchilla coat,” Louise reported. “Again!”
“Got me a choo-choo,” Tarvis grinned and then chugged out of the room in the general direction of the kitchen where Maw was serving up breakfast—lots of biscuit, a little bit of gravy, and eggs on the side with a whiff o’ ham squeezins. The only day of the year they ate like this—or wanted to, really.
“Oh, give me a Rome where the buffalos home and the uhm-a-mm-mm-mm-mmm,” she never knew the words, who did?
“I’m going to the Mall tonight.”
“You can’t, stupid, it’s Christmas.”
“Awk. What am I going to do?”
“Come over here, honey, and help me set the table.”
“Do I gotta?”
“If you want some squeezins, honey.”
In one corner of the room, way down on the floor, was an area that didn’t get much attention. It was a place where dust settled despite everyone’s—well, Ma’s—best efforts. Most of this time the area sat behind a big old potato chip can, forgotten, collecting things: a twist-tie, a dried blade of grass, a ball of cat hair, pinhead sized clumps of dirt from who knows where, and hundreds—yes, hundreds—of tiny, almost invisible, dust-mite skulls. Above the ossuary, within an old and dusty web, sat the ruler of this corner of the world, a tiny yellow spider.
Most of the time she snoozed peacefully, waiting for a wayward gnat or some other critter to stumble into her web—it only had to happen once—but this morning was different. Someone finally took the potato chip can away.
“Ew,” cried little Davy. “That’s just gross!”
The cat headed immediately for the corner. “Diego, no!” they cried. “Stop him!”
Diego’s tail swished through the tiny skulls, dust, and webbing like a . . . well, a . . . dustmop. Anyway the next thing the little spider knew she was scurrying ass over teakettle into the middle of the floor. Ominous dark clouds rolled back and forth across her sky, emitting threatening bellows of fear and confusion that she couldn’t hear—but certainly could feel. She was almost trampled many times before reaching the far shore where she skittled beneath immense boxes, bows and ribbon, toys, clothing, fruitcake, and crumpled wrapping paper. Every once in awhile a huge pine needle crashed thundering down. There she found a soaring metallic framework, and realized with joy that the god of spiders had shown her the perfect place for a web.
Sure enough, in the spirit of Christmas, the spider found a little present of her own underneath that Christmas tree: a blue-spruce pox beetle, an invasive species that had hitched a ride in from the country. Cracking open its carapace, the little yellow spider sat down for a fine holiday feast, one that would finally allow her to fulfill her destiny by implanting her eggs in the beetle’s nourishing body before dying in peace, fulfilled. She smiled lovingly down upon the quivering beast beneath her. Sensuously, she impugned its integrity.
“Merry Christmas to all,” she whispered, “and to all a good night!”
