The Things He Spared

               Jonah Vance hated insects. Not disliked them. Not found them unpleasant. Hated them with the irrational intensity of a childhood phobia he had never outgrown. A moth could make him leave a room. A beetle flying unexpectedly past his ear could produce language that would embarrass a construction crew. Grasshoppers were armored psychopaths. Cicadas were screaming armored psychopaths. Cockroaches were evidence that a benevolent God occasionally delegated.

               Wasps were worse than all of them.

               Spiders were different.

               Spiders frightened Jonah too, especially large ones, but fear was not hatred. Spiders had rules. They generally stayed where gravity put them. They hid. They built webs. They ate the things Jonah despised. Most importantly, Jonah understood something about spiders other people seemed determined not to understand. They were afraid too.

               He was reminded of that on a Saturday afternoon in early September while cleaning the garage of the house he shared with his wife, Margot, outside Helena, Montana. Jonah moved a scrap piece of 1x4. Something enormous shot from behind it.

               “FUCK!!!”

               He jumped backward and slammed his elbow against the workbench. The spider disappeared beneath a shelving unit. Jonah’s heart hammered. “Okay. Holy shit.” He crouched several feet away. Two thick legs protruded from beneath the shelf. They withdrew. Jonah smiled despite himself. “Yeah. I know, buddy. I scared the shit out of you too.”

               He found a clear plastic container and a piece of cardboard. Margot appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

               “Spider.”

               “How big?”

               “Unreasonably.”

               “Kill it.”

               Jonah looked offended. “Never.”

               “You hate bugs.”

               “Spiders aren’t insects.”

               Margot rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

               “It hasn’t done anything.”

               “It invaded our garage.”

               “It lives in Montana. We built a house on top of Montana.”

               Margot folded her arms. “This from the man who made me remove a moth from the bedroom last week.”

               “Moths fly.”

               “So?”

               “So, spiders have the decency to obey gravity.”

               Jonah lowered himself onto one knee. The spider remained beneath the shelf. “Come on, buddy.” He nudged the container closer. Nothing. Jonah moved a paint can. The spider ran deeper into the corner. “Shit. Sorry.”

               “What are you apologizing to it for?”

               “It’s scared.”

               “It’s a spider.”

               “Exactly. Imagine something 5,000 times your size ripping the roof off your house and chasing you with Tupperware.” Jonah could see the spider now. Dark brown, thick-bodied, easily the largest he had encountered in the garage. Its legs had drawn inward. It was not preparing to attack. It was trying to disappear. Jonah understood that. Being terrified did not make something evil. He reached carefully behind the paint can. Pain exploded through his right index finger.

               “FUCK!!!”

               Jonah jerked backward. The spider dropped to the concrete. Two punctures appeared near his knuckle. For an instant, fear took complete control. His hand burned. His heart raced. Every primitive instinct screamed that something venomous had just put part of itself inside him.

               Margot stepped forward. “It bit you!”

               Jonah stared at the spider. It had wedged itself against the wall, legs drawn tightly inward. His first reaction had been fear. His second was sympathy. “Okay.”

               “Okay?”

               “Yeah.”

               “Jonah, kill it.”

               “No.”

               “It just fucking bit you.”

               “That was my fault.” Margot stared at him. “I cornered it.”

               “You were trying to save it.”

               “The spider doesn’t know that.” The pain intensified. Jonah sucked air through his teeth. “That hurt like a motherfucker, though.” He lowered the container again.

               Margot shook her head. “You’re insane.”

               “Probably.”

               The spider darted inside.

               Jonah slid cardboard beneath it and carried the container across the yard. His finger throbbed with every heartbeat. He could have killed the spider. Part of him wanted to. Instead, he crouched beside the woodpile and lifted the container. The spider hesitated. Then disappeared beneath the logs. Jonah looked at his swollen finger. “I’d have bitten me too.”

               A week later, something else hurt him. Jonah was carrying garbage toward the bin when a wasp struck the side of his neck. The pain was instantaneous.

               Hot.

               Sharp.

               Personal.

               Jonah slapped himself and heard buzzing. His blood went cold. “You little fucking bastard.” The wasp circled his head. Jonah ducked. “NO. FUCK YOU!!!” It landed on the fence. Jonah backed away. His fear lasted perhaps 10 seconds. Then fear became rage. The wasp lifted from the fence and disappeared beneath the garage eave. Jonah followed. There. A nest. Barely larger than a golf ball. Three wasps crawled across it. Jonah went inside.

               Margot looked up from the couch. “What happened?”

               “Wasp.”

               “Oh.”

               “It stung me.”

               “Are you okay?”

               “No, fuck those little demons.”

               She examined the red welt on his neck. “You look okay.”

               “That is not the same thing.” Jonah opened the hall closet. “What are you doing?”

               “Getting spray.”

               “Jonah.”

               “What?”

               “You saved a spider that bit you.”

               “Completely different.”

               “How?”

               “The spider was scared.”

               “And the wasp?”

               “Was born evil.”

               Margot laughed. Jonah did not. He destroyed the nest. The satisfaction was immediate. So was the mistake. Monday brought another nest beneath the deck. Tuesday, one appeared inside an abandoned birdhouse. Wednesday, Jonah found two beneath the shed roof. By Thursday, he owned six cans of wasp spray, four traps, insecticidal powder, goggles, gloves, and a white protective suit Margot found hilarious. “You look like a beekeeper.”

               “They’re not bees.”

               “I know.”

               “Bees are fine.”

               “I know.”

               “Bees make honey.”

               “Yes.”

               “Wasps make pain.”

               “I understand your position on wasps.”

               “No, you don’t.”

               Jonah spent two hours patrolling the property. He killed 23. He counted. Friday afternoon, there were more. Jonah began to feel watched. That evening he entered the house sweaty, exhausted, and smelling like pesticide. “What’s for dinner?”

               “Leftovers.”

               He stopped. “What?”

               “Chicken from Wednesday.”

               “You didn’t make anything?”

               Margot looked at him. “I’m tired.”

               Something stupid ignited inside Jonah. He knew it was stupid. That had never prevented anything. “You’re tired?”

               “Yes.”

               “I’ve been working all day.”

               “So have I.”

               “And then I spent two hours dealing with those fucking things.”

               “I didn’t ask you to.”

               “Oh, excellent. So now I get three-day-old chicken.”

               Margot put down her phone.

“I worked eight hours today, Jonah.”

               “Congratulations, Margot. You worked a standard 40-hour fucking week like virtually every other adult in America. Should I alert the governor?”

               Silence. Jonah regretted it immediately. Unfortunately, regret and anger were perfectly capable of occupying his brain simultaneously. Margot stood. “Heat up your own fucking chicken.”

               She walked upstairs. Jonah remained in the kitchen. “Fuck.”

               He heated the chicken. It tasted perfectly fine. This somehow irritated him further. Saturday morning, Jonah found a wasp on his toothbrush. He froze.

               Margot appeared behind him. “It’s probably nothing.”

               Jonah slowly turned. “What?” She was smiling. He pointed toward the toothbrush. “That is psychological warfare.” The wasp flew. Jonah screamed, swung a towel, knocked over a cup, sent toothpaste across the mirror, and nearly tore down the shower curtain. The wasp escaped through the vent. Jonah stared upward. “Oh, you motherfuckers.”

               By afternoon, three vent covers were removed. Sunday, he found a wasp beneath his pillow. Monday, two appeared in the kitchen. Tuesday morning, Jonah entered the garage and found six dead wasps. One was wrapped in silk. He crouched. Another hung beneath the workbench. A third was suspended near the window. Jonah smiled. “Well, hello.”

               Something moved beneath the shelf. The large spider emerged. One rear leg was slightly shorter than the others. Jonah recognized it immediately. “You came back.” The spider stopped. Jonah sat several feet away. “You’re getting fucking huge.” The spider retreated. Jonah chuckled. “Okay. I’ll leave you alone.” He did.

               Over the following days, Jonah noticed more spiders. Small ones occupied corners. A web appeared beside the garage window. Another stretched behind a storage cabinet.

               Margot noticed Jonah deliberately stepping around one in the hallway. “You’re letting them live inside now?”

               “He’s not bothering anybody.”

               “He’s in our house.”

               “He’s eating things in our house.”

               “You’re scared of him.”

               “Sure.”

               Margot frowned. “Then I don’t understand.”

               Jonah looked at the tiny spider retreating into the corner. “Look at him.”

               “What?”

               “He’s hiding.”

               “So?”

               “He doesn’t want anything to do with us. He’s terrified.”

               “So are you.”

               “Exactly.” Margot stared at him. Jonah shrugged. “Being afraid of something doesn’t mean it deserves to die.”

               Three days later, Jonah forgot his own philosophy. He discovered a hole behind the garage workbench. Wasps moved steadily through a gap in the deteriorating siding. One entered. Two exited. Then four. Jonah watched for several minutes. His skin crawled. He had found them. Margot saw him carrying a pry bar. “No fucking way.”

               “What?”

               “Whatever you’re about to do.”

               “They’re inside the wall.”

               “Call somebody.”

               “I can handle it.”

               “That sentence has preceded every stupid thing you’ve done since I met you.”

               “One was under my fucking pillow.”

               “Maybe they weren’t at war with you until you declared war on them.”

               Jonah laughed. “They started it.”

               “One stung you.”

               “Exactly.”

               “One spider bit you too.”

               “That was different.”

               “Because you decided it was different.”

               Jonah stopped. He hated when Margot said something that remained annoying after he thought about it. “That spider was afraid.” “And what are you?” Jonah said nothing. Margot pointed at the pry bar. “You’re terrified of them. So, you’ve spent two weeks killing them because being scared makes you angry.”

               “They’re fucking wasps.”

               “And you’re fucking Jonah.” He entered the garage. “Jonah.”

               “I’m handling it.”

               He moved the workbench. The siding behind it had warped. He inserted the pry bar. Something buzzed inside the wall. Jonah paused. Not buzzing. Vibrating. He pulled. The board cracked. The sound intensified. Jonah stared into darkness. Then the wall moved. Hundreds of yellow bodies covered the interior. Jonah stumbled backward. “Oh, fuck.” There was no nest. There were nests. Layers of comb disappeared between the studs. Thousands of wasps crawled over one another. Somewhere in the terror, Jonah finally understood.

               He had not been exterminating them. He had been provoking them. The wall erupted. Jonah ran. The first sting hit his shoulder. The second struck his scalp. The third hit his ear. He screamed.

               “JONAH!”

               Margot stood near the kitchen.

               “GET OUT!”

               She saw the swarm. Margot ran. Jonah should have followed. A wasp struck beneath his eye. Fear became rage. Again. He grabbed a can of spray.

               “COME ON!”

               He emptied it into the swarm. Wasps dropped. More came. One entered his shirt. Another struck his hand. Jonah screamed and backed into the hallway. Movement appeared along the baseboard. Spiders. One emerged. Then another. Five. Ten. Dozens. They appeared beneath cabinets, behind furniture, through cracks Jonah had never noticed. Jonah’s terror surged. Too many legs. Too much movement. His foot lifted instinctively over one. He stopped.

               The spider beneath his shoe was not coming toward him. It was running toward the wasps. Jonah lowered his foot. “Oh my God.” A wasp descended. A spider caught it. Another became tangled in webbing near the doorway. Larger spiders rushed from beneath the cabinets. The huge spider emerged from the garage and seized a struggling wasp. Jonah stared. They were helping him. No way in hell. That was ridiculous. They were hunting. They were defending webs. They were responding to thousands of prey animals suddenly filling the house. There were rational explanations.

               Jonah did not give a shit. “Get ’em, guys.”

               A wasp struck his neck. Then another. Then ten. The swarm overwhelmed the hallway. Jonah fell. His hand landed hard. Something crunched beneath his palm. He looked down. A spider curled against the floor. “Oh, fuck. No.” A wasp buried its stinger beneath his eye. Jonah screamed. He crawled.

But when he placed his hand again, he moved it around the dead spider. Even then. Even while the wasps were killing him. He was careful where he put his hands.

               They entered his shirt. His hair. His pants. One crawled across his lips. Another stung his eyelid. Jonah swatted wildly, crushing wasps against his skin. His face swelled. His vision narrowed.

               “Margot!”

               The word emerged thick. His tongue was swelling. He crawled another foot. Something dark moved through the swarm. The large spider. It crossed the hallway toward him. A wasp landed beside it. The spider seized it. Another descended. The spider attacked again. Jonah stared. The creature he had saved when it was frightened had returned while Jonah was frightened.

               Ridiculous.

               Impossible.

               Beautiful.

               Jonah extended his hand. The spider climbed onto it. Onto his right index finger. The same finger it had bitten. Jonah waited. No bite came. A wasp landed beside it. The spider killed the wasp. Jonah laughed weakly. “I get it, buddy.” The spider climbed down. Jonah collapsed. The last thing he heard was buzzing.

               He woke in a hospital two days later. Margot sat beside him. Jonah’s throat hurt. “You look like shit,” she said.

               He smiled weakly. “Chicken?”

               She laughed. It hurt him to join her. Doctors told Jonah he had received hundreds of stings. Margot had called 911. Firefighters and paramedics eventually entered the house wearing protective equipment. Jonah spent four days hospitalized. The swelling faded. Most wounds healed. Some scarred. Professional exterminators treated the property. Jonah supervised one part personally. “And the spiders?” one exterminator asked.

               Jonah stared at him. “What about them?”

               “You want those treated too?”

               “Absolutely fucking not.”

               “There are quite a few.”

               “Good.”

               The exterminator hesitated. “Good?”

               Jonah nodded toward the garage. “They live here.”

               Three weeks later, Jonah sat on the patio watching evening settle across the Montana sky. Margot brought him dinner. Fresh chicken. Jonah looked at it. Then at her. “You know, leftovers would’ve been fine.”

               “Careful. Personal growth might kill you.”

               “I’ve recently learned I’m difficult to kill.”

               A wasp flew across the yard. Jonah stiffened. His pulse accelerated. Every instinct demanded that he run, find the spray, kill it before it could hurt him. The wasp landed on the fence. Jonah watched it. For the first time, he wondered whether it was afraid too. Probably. That did not make him like the fucking thing. He watched it lift from the fence and disappear beyond the yard. Margot noticed. “Proud of you.”

               “Don’t make it weird.”

               She went inside. Jonah looked toward the garage. Something moved near the door. Eight dark legs emerged from beneath the siding. The large spider stopped in the evening light. Jonah smiled. “Hey, buddy.” The spider disappeared into the garage. A few minutes later, Margot went outside to retrieve something from her car. Jonah heard the garage door open. Then silence. Then Margot screamed.

               “JONAH!”

               He jumped from his chair. “What?”

               “That fucking spider is back!”

               Jonah hurried toward the garage. Margot stood inside holding a broom. The enormous spider crouched beneath the workbench, legs pulled inward, trying to disappear. Exactly as it had the first time Jonah saw it. Margot raised the broom. Jonah’s eyes widened.

               “DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH THAT SPIDER!!!”