Her face twisted. "That's revolting!"
What can I say? It was too late anyway; as I left for work she was hauling
bucket and rags and pine cleaner out of the pantry. I figured in the hour before
she'd have to get ready for work she'd have our white bathroom smelling like a
hospital too.
The next morning I saw it. Maggie was in the kitchen packing my lunch and
thankfully didn't see the dog crouching half inside the bathroom door, or Chanci
would've probably gotten a couple of whacks for doing it two days in a row. I
couldn't stand to see that -- Chanci may be big (she's half Lab and half Great
Dane), but she's nothing but a silly puppy in a ten-year old body. And normally
well-behaved: she doesn't bark, bite, or crap in the house. It seemed a shame
for her to get cracked just because the bathroom had bugs and she was curious.
Though I could understand why! The damn thing was huge, maybe as long as my
thumb, a couple of inches at least -- no exaggeration. It went scuttling
backwards under the tub when I reached around and flipped the light switch, but
I could have sworn that it was only about a half a foot away from the dog --
like it wasn't afraid of her at all.
Well, Mama didn't raise an idiot and I'd be damned if I was going to stick my
hand back under the tub. To be honest, the memory of that pain was enough to
make me hesitate about kneeling down and looking, but in the end I did, after
glancing out of the door and making sure Maggie was still messing with my lunch
box. It would really make her crazy to think there was a roach crawling around
the bathroom she'd practically sterilized yesterday. I thought I saw it, way
back in the corner -- the same spot as yesterday, when I'd stupidly tried to
grab it.
I got back up and strolled into the kitchen without saying anything, first
making sure that Chanci was in the other room to stay.
"I think I'll pick up some bug spray on the way home," I said.
Maggie whirled. I could see her fingers clench around the peach that was slotted
as today's dessert and resigned myself to bruised fruit. "Did you see another
one? Where? In the bathroom again?"
"No," I lied. "Just a precaution. We never did catch that one yesterday. Unless
you...?" She shook her head. "That goes to show you. It'll probably come back,
maybe with a family." She scrunched up her shoulders and shivered. "We'll start
spraying, everyday at first, then once a week. That'll kill them off and keep
them gone."
Friday morning I sat at the kitchen table -- sometimes it seems we spend our
lives at the kitchen table -- and made out Dolly's check. Maggie paid the other
bills that were due and pushed a few aside that she figured could hold out
another week; I could feel a breeze in a few places in my boots, but new ones
would still have to wait. The alimony was the only bill I had to take care of
personally and after four years writing that check still hurt to the heart.
While Maggie didn't complain -- which wouldn't have made any difference -- she
refused to write the check out and made me mail it myself.
