In Haste I Write You This Note

By Elisavietta Ritchie

Ritchie's resonant writing evokes humanity's most endearing traits. Whether showcasing American diplomats, struggling fishermen or worried parents, her work will remind readers of the many serendipitous connections and missed opportunities that continually swirl in the world around them. Three of the four sections in this twenty-one story collectio

• Language: English
• Publisher: Washington Writers' Publishing House
• Release date: Apr 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781941551080

Elisavietta Ritchie

In Haste I Write You This Note: Stories & Half-Stories, winner of the premiere Washington Writers' Publishing House Fiction Competition (2000), is now an ebook (2015). Raking The Snow won the Washington Writer's Publishing House poetry prize (1982). Flying Time: Stories & Half-Stories, her first short fiction collection, includes four PEN Syndicated Fiction winners. Tightening The Circle Over Eel Country won the Great Lakes Colleges Association's "New Writer's Prize for Best First Book of Poetry 1975-76."

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I. The Lady in Eight

In Haste I Write You This Note—

I’ll slide it under my neighbor’s door:

Dear Friend: Unless you too are allergic, a large wasp of unknown species is under a wine glass in my —

Should I say bedroom? Too — inviting. Yet my whole apartment is my bedroom. And vice versa. The bed, double, heaped with pillows, their covers different batiks, is at the east end of what was the servants’ parlor under the mansard of this turn-of-the-century mansion previously owned by a minor millionaire with a propensity for turrets and gargoyles. My closet is a walnut armoire with lions’ heads and elephant feet: too heavy, or ugly, for them to move out. The sideboard, on which the wasp is stationed, is carved with cupids. A hotplate-and-cupboard combination and a sink-and-fridge muta­tion were later installed at the west end. When I moved in, they were screened by plastic rubber plants, which I immediately lugged through the casement window onto my half of the balcony. A trellis separates mine from my neighbor’s half. And our dividing wall is trellis-thin.

Couldn’t he hear that terrible buzz through the wallboard?

Initially I wrote just glass, then inserted wine. Various objects can be of glass, one should be specific. Specifically: crystal. Thin as a — soap bubble? Almost as fragile.

Can shut the living-room-to-bathroom door on the wasp. Could even sleep in the old claw-footed tub. My bathroom, size of an ordi­nary shower stall, was built in a corner of the kit­chen. I’m not sure this juxtaposition is legal, but given the proximity of pipes, expedient for the contractor who cut-and-pasted the mansion into an — octoplex. Unlike mass-produced condominiums, condominia, each of our eight apartments is unique.

Mine is Flat Eight. I’ve never seen Seven next door.

Dear Friend — Sounds like those chummy letters sellers of insurance or the National Rifle Association or Save-A-Soul send to thirty thousand of the most desired names on a rented or pilfered list.

Although he introduced himself when he moved in — we met while hauling our respective trash bags down the back (servants’) staircase to the curb, and he cut his hand on a shard of glass — he mumbled his name and the down­stairs neighbor’s bad-tempered Pekinese was yapping.

You can tell the owner’s personality, he remarked as he stared in disbelief at the bubble of blood, by the temperament of the pet. He is correct about that neighbor, and her Peke.

He keeps a cat. Large, fuzzy, orange-brown, a marmalade cat. Paws oversized like those of a lion cub. Purrs loudly. He is also large, hair thick auburn on head and chin. Both have a few grey whiskers. The rest can only be guessed.

Cut Dear Friend. Dear Neighbor is worse. Get to the point.

Sorry to bother you, but unless you, too, are allergic to hymenoptera —

Suppose he doesn’t know what hymenoptera are. Suppose he thinks me — pretentious? Arrogant? Suppose he reads only half the word.

That wasp is huge as a horse hornet, if skinnier in the waist, not fuzzy. As lethal. Strong enough to shatter crystal.

Could I trouble you to kill a wasp?

What if he is an animal rights activist? Or to escort it outdoors, perhaps by sliding a piece of paper underneath, taking care it does not become angry, sting through—

Change paper to cardboard. No, how about aluminum foil thick enough to roast a goose. Or a porcupine. Cruelty to warm-blooded animals. I could let the wasp suffocate under the glass. One drop of wine dried in the bottom, perhaps the lingering aroma will render its departure into the next world less unpleasant —

Lingering aroma is corny. Render — pretentious. As for double negatives —

Perhaps whatever leftover fumes will make its departure into the next world more pleasant —

The contiguity of whatever and leftover is cumbersome. He may not believe in further worlds. Possible subject for discussion?

Perhaps the bouquet of Beaujolais nouveau –

That might interest him. So might the story of my dis­covery of three bottles, and eight tiny jars of delicacies, beneath the wardrobe’s false bottom, perhaps stashed by a light-fingered servant or a mistrustful boarder.

What has he unearthed in Number Seven?

It would be fully proper to invite a new neighbor around for a drink. Around the trellis.

Suppose he opposes alcohol for ideological or relig­ious reasons? Suppose he’s an alcoholic, decides I’m a soft uncritical touch for unlimited booze? Suppose he is in Alcoholics Anonymous and, thinking me a lush, tries to enlist me? I’ve never liked any meetings. I drink one glass, with guests. No guests of late....

Suppose he thinks me an untidy housekeeper for leaving a — can’t call it exactly dirty — an unwashed wineglass? And at only ten Saturday morning.

Suppose he is gone off in his red convertible for the entire weekend? I saw him leave, all biceps and bare, reddishly hairy legs in crisp white shorts, his white polo shirt unappliqued, tennis racquets jutting from his duffel. Small, could hold only one change of clothes for after showering, he could be away just an hour. Men’s doubles? Or is there — some lady? I’ve never overhead female voices. Nor any voice, except his own on his end of the phone. With whom does he communi­cate? He’s new in town, away a lot.

I like his recent switch from pop to Mozart, Mendelssohn. I play Bach and Beethoven.

I haven’t yet found the right music to expedite The Flight of the Wasp. Perhaps you — Too precious.

I also play tennis, must let that slip out. At fourteen I won the cup at camp. Haven’t played much since, but I maintain my pectorals.

I would swat it myself, but hate to kill any creature.

A well-trained hypocrite, I prefer someone else be respon­sible for the slaughter. Besides, if I lifted the glass (I’ll never drink from that one again) the wasp would escape, zoom right at me. Or first hide for a while in a curtain fold. Or bedspread. Camouflage easy on batik. Lurk, fury honed, until time to strike...me.

Are women assumed to be squeamish? Avoid respon­sibility for our acts? Non-action. I acknowledge mine. I special­ize in good intentions. Good or bad, I intend someone else dispose of wasps.

I am too sensitive — to wasps — to attack it myself and I fear a corpse next door would discomfit you —

I’m not otherwise a sissy, must assure him. Many insects fascinate me. I thumb entomological tomes full of aquatic pyralid moths, pale-legged tree-fungus beetles, two-toothed longhorns, brush-footed fritillaries, constricted flower bugs—Granted a mealy-eyed editor would blue-pencil such surfeit of hyphens and adjec­tives. As for Latin monikers —

Bees are respectable for their societal structures, their agricultural and culinary benefits. I might die from a bee sting too, but at least they don’t premeditate either my death or their own. Bees are not the embodiment of evil.

Wasps are. Wasps are real, not metaphors. They plot. Their intentions are deliberate, deadly. In at least one species, the female paralyzes spiders and caterpillars, stores them until her own young hatch, ravenous.

This wasp paralyzes me. I hunch at my desk, farthest end of the room from him — her? A drone? Or queen wasp? Should it escape, I could scramble out my casement window onto the balcony.

Why do we never seem to be on our balcony halves at the same time? Only your cat.

Out there now? I don’t turn to check. I’d never turn my back on a wasp. I’m writing on my lap, on this lined pad because my monogrammed stationery is in the sideboard atop which the wasp is imprisoned.

Of course one should liberate a trapped creature, but I’m low on Benadryl and my will is still in formulation. Some day I’ll find a lawyer. Are you by any chance —?

I don’t know many doctors either.

I’d never sleep in the same room with a wasp, even dead. It, me. Could carry my sleeping bag onto the balcony, needs airing after years in the wardrobe, along with my racquet, strings dangling like an unstrung mandolin. If he peers around the trellis, he’ll think me the hardy outdoor type. In a few days, he could slide — someone must slide — the certifiably dead wasp into a jar, clap on the lid, take it to the trash — outside, not in my trash basket.

Might it not dissolve to dust of its own accord? Must carry the microbes of its own destruction. Yet self-consumption could take a year: dead bugs hang around ages, at least their exoskeletons.

Even should it appear to have died — peacefully — of insufficient oxygen amid the declining vapors of Beaujolais, one whiff of air might revive it. And a wasp that hasn’t stung in a while has stored extra venom. This has been a long winter.

I’d open the casement window, let in spring air, but other wasps might wing in to the rescue. Intelligent, crafty, they’d mass to tip the glass. Once was a man who killed several wasps that slipped under his door, an old house, they must’ve built a hive just outside, or in an adjoining room, whole swarm crawled under the door to sting nobody else but him. To death, of course.

Has this wasp been hiding in my — bedroom — all winter, incubating in a crack, now newly hatched, hell-bent on my destruction?

Can’t move to a motel, can’t afford one. If he is going away somewhere for the weekend, he does take trips somewhere, maybe he’d let me stay in his place. When he is away, who feeds his cat?

Should you ever need a cat-sitter —

You kill my wasp, I’ll feed your cat.

Supplied with enough kibbles and water, a cat can manage a weekend on its own.

I cannot manage a wasp any weekend on my own. Nothing to do with being a helpless female —

Suppose he were the one to leave me a note: Dear Miss/Madam: I have this wasp to which I am physically and spiritually allergic and I lack the guts myself to – Or is he the type to say balls?

He may not have caught my name either. We should post names on our mailboxes...What if he’s a murderer, quietly hiding behind his beard in some niche or nook or half-forgotten laundry chute, dumb waiter, wine cellar, dungeon? Anonymity Equals Security.

Sorry to bother you, sir, but would you kindly murder the wasp under my wineglass?

His methods need not be kind. One whack of a rolled newspa­per would do, or for greater distancing, a broom. But I just hauled my papers to the recycling bin, which’s when I noticed him heading for tennis. (Did the wasp slip in then?) And my broom is frayed and soft, wasps could nestle among the bristles unscathed.

Perhaps you would bring your broom —

He recently moved in (was it six months ago?), he’d have bought new cleaning equipment, a new broom sweeps — With bach­elors, you never know, sometimes they don’t own a broom. Has he always been a bachelor? Might he have a wife, six kids, stashed somewhere, or two, three, wives, perhaps spite­ful as wasps, perhaps for good reason —

Should he not prefer women, we could still be good friends. I need a good friend now.

Why hasn’t he returned? How many sets does he play, for goodness sake! Does he lounge around a sauna, drink beer after­wards, watch some game in a pub? What about his poor cat? Repressed? I’ve never heard her meow. Just basks in the sun on his balcony half. Reticent, yet a sensual cat. Is he also like that?

I have meant to be neighborly sooner, but perhaps you would care to come by for something cold — Just happened to notice you heading for tennis. I’m curious where the courts are, and if —

He might think I spy on him. And that namby-pamby word perhaps should go. What man anymore likes a woman who plays the fainting maiden. Best appear resolute.

Be resolute. I approach, tiptoe, inspect the wasp beneath the glass. Quiescent at last. No, even from here, I see one antennae twitch. And it – she— sees me. Juts wings upward at that stiff angle, both antennae wave, stinger poises —

Twenty-four hours and it might be dead. Forty-eight. A week.

Glad I’m wearing these thick jeans, heavy shirt. Though the stinger of a wasp that size —

Have I worn these same sweater and jeans all month? Encased in my wintry carapace. Even if it means opening the wardrobe near the wasp, I’ll unearth my flouncy cotton dress, light blue green like a...luna moth? No, greener, like a praying mantis.

Climb out the casement window, hang the dress from the trellis to air in the sun, shower. One month since I shampooed...

The lady praying mantis eats her lover up.

Indeed a beautiful spring day. I might be, happier, safer, out here. Stifling inside. I might — will — dust the plastic rubber plants, then check if anything’s left in the armoire, artichoke hearts? Smoked oysters? Something to offer a guest.

Noticed you with racquets — Ever need a fourth? Come for a drink when you get home, your cat too. Incidentally, bring your broom — C.

Hand-to-Mouth

Yes, that’s how I live in the literal sense now you’re away. I hang out in twenty-four-hour diners, the kind with pie à la mode, two refills of coffee free, television and radio always on. I space out my visits and always pay for my tea. When the owner is out, the waitress brings soup. Crackers and water come with. And they have vinyl banquettes.

One morning the waitress insisted I try a bite from her steaming pan of fresh-baked liver sprinkled with sesame seeds. I’m still vegetarian, darling, and grew up hating liver-and-onion nights, but never, oh never, have I tasted anything quite so good as that liver with sesame seeds...I almost asked for the recipe.

But who knows how long I’ll be out sampling the tiny seven-grain cubes on the Bakery counter, hotdog slivers in barbecue sauce the supermarket’s promoting, the new labels of kid-friendly punch doled into thimble-sized cups...I market-test everything, buy just enough packets of chips and from the Bargain Cart spotted apples and rotten pears.

Fruit tastes better ripe, I tell the coiffured cashier who watches I don’t run off with the escarole, yellow peppers, ruby radicchio.

I skip the marked-down potatoes: nowadays I don’t cook. Hairy carrots and squidgy zucchini, in the park I can scrub with snow and scrape with your Swiss Army penknife. Squirrels leap over the drifts to join me at the redwood picnic table, tidy any crumbs.

Some days the sun’s out, dances on patches of ice. I must watch my step on the unshovelled walks nowadays, but how you and I would skate on the frozen pool! They’ve shut off the fountain for winter.

Some days I go to the library, take a subway or bus—how many invisible miles, peculiar people...In the bus station one night I found myself curled around by a girl in her twenties, also come in from the snow, each of us wrapped in our separate coats, pillowing on each other.

Sometimes I pass her now on the avenue, or walking out of the diner. We don’t speak, though our eyes for an instant meet. Her fortune seems to have changed, or she’s dressed for a better role: spike-heeled boots, and a fur.

Even at 20 below I still wear my tweed coat, prudent galoshes, the red dress you bought me, my velvet hat with the veil.

Once a week I go home to check if there’s mail left outside, but never go in. The day you departed, I stopped the utilities and the papers. But I keep up with the news—Classifieds get left on a bench, stock market reports jut from a bin—Yes, you’re doing all right—I read whatever cover-to-cover.

What luck,