Fist of the Spider Woman (20 page)

“I need it for canning,” is all Biba said. And indeed there were the many Mason jars along cellar shelves to prove her point. Before Biba shooed Guido back upstairs he gazed in gape-mouthed wonder at her canning cache. There were tomatoes, of course; Biba made sure there was no shortage of tomatoes. And canned beans; Biba had runner beans trained along the garden fence and cannelloni beans as early as May. Then there were the jars of food that puzzled Guido—chili peppers, marinated okra, octopus tentacles. Where was Biba getting this octopus? Guido never asked.

When Biba died of cardiac arrest before they saw their tenth anniversary, Guido visited the basement a second time to shout at the tomato sauce and cry to the oily octopus tentacles pressed against cylindrical glass.

He couldn't bear to sell the house any more than he could live in it. And after touring several pairs of newlyweds through the empty rooms, he decided against renting to young, rosy couples. Instead, he offered the keys to two women. They weren't old enough to be spinsters, but there was something about them— the way they folded their arms in front of their chests, jutted their chins out, and their perfume smelled more like chopped wood than florals—little clues that told Guido these women had no hope of finding husbands.

This was his landlord's strategy: rent to women. Countless stiff, seemingly chaste women. Otherwise, he paid no attention to the rotation of ostentatious paint colours, the untiring dance of Polyfilla and nail holes on the plaster walls, or anything else that happened in the house.

Zoya's mean mommy routine wavered slightly after Trinket said, “Thank you,” and the corners of her carnelian red lips curled into an involuntary smile. She looked out the curtainless attic window to prevent Trinket from seeing her gleeful expression.

Throughout most of their relationship Trinket had been a fount of thankfulness. If Zoya had a dollar for every time Trinket said “thank you,” they could have bought themselves a house. Regrettably, Trinket's good manners had zero monetary value, and the house she and Zoya lived in—where they first met, where for two years they fucked and shared food with friends and threw parties and fought and fucked some more—had recently been sold. Their notice of eviction soon followed. Ever since, Trinket hadn't felt very grateful. Rightfully put, her mood had been downright dismal. And so Zoya quietly drank in Trinket's “thank you” like water during a dry spell.

Both Trinket's wrists were hitched in black silk upholstery cord, bought specifically to match Zoya's brocade corset. Trinket had a theory that Zoya's fondness for coordinating their lingerie and personal effects had something to do with Zoya being an only child who was denied Barbie dolls and Bonne Bell makeup, and instead was made to read the works of ancient poets and philosophers such as Rumi and Horace. Trinket also suspected that this accounted for a fair share of Zoya's sadism.

The root of Trinket's nearly rabid devotion remained a big question. She certainly never saw it—meaning Zoya—coming.

On their first date they went from kissing on a rainy November beach to Zoya bending Trinket over a granite boulder and spanking her ass and pussy with her leather driving glove. “Is that your come on my new glove?” Zoya had thrust the sticky glove at Trinket's nose. Trinket's only response was giddy laughter. Not amused, Zoya had Trinket walk back to the car with the glove crammed in her mouth. Trinket suckled and gagged, though she didn't protest. Her willingness surprised her. She had been willing ever since.

In their attic room, Trinket thanked Zoya for roughly one foot of the black silk rope. Rather than hog-tying Trinket's wrists tightly together behind her back, Zoya left a foot or so between each knotted cuff so Trinket had partial use of her arms. She reached back to touch Zoya, who stood ominously close behind her and said it again: “Thank you.”

Zoya then bound her legs in a similar fashion: ankle cuffs with a couple of feet of rope between them. Trinket did not thank her for taking away her ability to spread her legs wide open. She entertained the idea of kicking her feet to mess up Zoya's knots. But if ever there was a night to be a good girl, this was it.

It was their last night in the house. All their belongings— apart from the stool, the rope and whatever surprises Zoya had brought in her black briefcase—had already been moved to their new apartment.

“Remember how this attic room used to give you the creeps?” Zoya asked. “Now, after all this time, tell me the truth, that was an excuse to get into my bed, wasn't it?” Before they were lovers they were roommates. They're queer. It's East Vancouver. It happens.

“This room is drafty,” Trinket complained about her old bedroom.

“The whole house is drafty,” said Zoya. Ever since the house had sold, Zoya had been quick to point out its shortcomings. Testy wiring topped her list.
“
Think of how many times we reset the clocks. All the surge protectors in the world won't help this house.” And Banjo, their Boston terrier, always managed to escape through some unseen door in the middle of the night to bark hysterically in the back yard. And the taps dripped … the list went on.

“At least it's quiet here,” moped Trinket. “There's so much traffic and construction on Main Street.”

“Oh, it's quiet here, hmm?” Zoya said as she grabbed a fistful of Trinket's hair. Trinket squealed. “It doesn't seem so quiet to me.” Trinket lowered her squeal to the baby-girl baying she knew Zoya was fond of hearing. Zoya yanked her head back to slip a blindfold over her eyes. That was what the slack foot of rope was for, Trinket suddenly realized. Zoya had bound her hands just tight enough so she wouldn't be able to remove the blindfold.

Darkness had never become a matter of course for Trinket.

The blindfold still rattled her as much as it had their first time using it. Likewise, Zoya never tired of watching Trinket jerk and twist, reaching helplessly around her for something to grab onto.

“Stay on your perch, little one.” Zoya warned. Trinket squirmed on the stool as she heard the metallic snap of the briefcase opening. An assortment of clonks and jangles sounded in Trinket's ears as she tried to guess which toys where being set out. She hoped to hear the happy clanking of the metal buckles on Zoya's harness. Instead there were seemingly long silent gaps with only the windy whir that the house always made, now amplified throughout the empty rooms. Occasionally Zoya tapped something on Trinket's kneecap or shoulder, but the touch was too brief for Trinket to guess what was rubber and what was leather.

“You know, I don't mind a noisy house, as long as the noises are yours.” Zoya picked up the thread of their last conversation, which, to Trinket, felt like an eternity ago. She stuck two fingers into Trinket's mouth, and Trinket found herself automatically moaning and suckling. “So eager tonight, and I haven't even gotten started with you yet.” Zoya pushed her fingers further into Trinket's mouth, hooked them around her bottom row of teeth, and pulled Trinket's face to her breasts. Zoya let her rest there, allowing Trinket to nuzzle into her for a quick second before taking a sudden step back. Trinket lost her balance, as Zoya knew she would. The floorboards squeaked unapologetically beneath her as she floundered to right herself on the stool again. At 5'1", any barstool was a reach for Trinket, and Zoya had purposely picked the tallest one. She laughed a little at Trinket's blinded loss of equilibrium. Then, in a flash of ruthlessness, she wound up her leather boot and swiftly kicked the stool out from under Trinket. It hit the far wall with a terrible crash. Trinket screamed and laughed like mad, nearly toppling over.

“I'll give you ten whole minutes to hide,” said Zoya, gravely. Trinket scrambled forward a few steps before an arm wrapped around her waist. Her legs kept moving on the spot like a marionette.

“How many minutes did I generously give you?” Zoya asked.

“Ten minutes,” Trinket huffed. “Ten generous minutes.”

“Well then, there's no need to go tripping down the stairs, is there?” Despite this warning, on Trinket's next step she walked headlong into the doorframe. The mild blow shook her confidence. She was tempted to lie down on the floor in a “game-over” fetal position.
You know this house
, she reminded herself,
with your eyes closed. Don't let it defeat you
.

Before her was the staircase. She ran her toes over the top step, twisted awkwardly to grab a hold of the banister, then sidled down the stairs one careful step at a time.

When she reached the main floor she smelled paraffin. Under the rim of the blindfold she spied candlelight and was drawn to it like a moth. Melted wax spilled on Trinket's toes as she accidentally tipped a votive candle with her foot.
It's nearly impossible
to get wax off of an old hardwood floor
, Trinket thought as she mashed the hot wax into the floorboards with bare feet: a present for the new owners. She traced the room and found dozens more candles along the baseboard. She left them upright, knowing Zoya probably laid them out to keep her from walking into walls.

The living room used to be an obstacle course of overflowing bookshelves, armchairs crowded with throw pillows, and a jungle of houseplants in the bay window. Once, during a similar game, Trinket zipped herself into a duvet cover and burrowed into their nest of a sofa. Zoya had stormed the house searching for her. Hide-and-seek was their favourite foreplay game. With all her hiding places gone, Trinket wandered in blind circles from the living room to the kitchen, the den, and back again.

She made a desperate attempt to tuck herself under the kitchen sink, but the drainpipe refused to move over to let her in.

She stood at the back door for a while, wrestling the doorknob with her rope-bound hands. Finally the door cracked open and June night air rushed in, making her shiver. Trinket imagined evening dew against her skin. She figured it was all right to be outside naked and blindfolded, since they wouldn't be sticking around to face the neighbour's reaction in the morning. She stepped through the door onto the prickly straw doormat. A few more steps and she found grass beneath her feet.

Over the years, the Gambini back garden was dug up and re-sown with every manner of flora imaginable. Vegetables continued strong through the 1960s, although the first tenants allowed dozens of zucchini to overripen on the vine. Slugs dined on the basil and the mint. And not a single tomato was blanched and canned.

An assembly of sunflowers rang in the next decade, and the yard became a supper club for hungry sparrows and squirrels.

Those were crooner days, the early '70s. Passersby might have heard Barry Manilow or Wayne Newton lyrics being sung in lullaby voices. If one were to have peeked over the garden fence, one would have seen women serenading each other, a record player propped in the open back window.

But there was no holding back “Skyrockets in flight, afternoon delight” on eight-track cassette. Soon enough the sunflowers petrified on their stocks, and the whole, poorly-tended lot was strangled by creeping morning glory, which, by chance, was the perfect weedy bed for a group Quaalude and make-out trip.

Bonfires burned for the better part of the '80s. Marshmallows browned as impromptu direct-action groups were formed. Anti-poverty, anti-war, anti-Expo, anti-fur, anti-cruise-missile-testing, and anti-industrial protest signs were constructed in the basement. After the sit-ins and marches were finished the same signs were burned in the fire pit to destroy the evidence.

Anne Goldstein, anti-violence activist, feminist collective founder, and tenant from 1981 to 1985, named the house the Fire Brigade after the 1982 anti-porn firebombings of three local Red Hot Video stores.

The next tenants kept the house name but built a skateboard half-pipe over the fire pit. The tenants after that flooded the yard and started a lesbian mud-wrestling federation—Team Fire Brigade held the title of tag-team champions for two consecutive summers.

In the millennium, the house was rechristened the Crotch Fire Brigade, which would have had the '80s second-wave feminists cringing with disgust. The polyamorous, pomosexual renters transformed the yard into an underground, vintage porn-viewing gallery. Bed sheets were tacked to the house and cast with grainy black-and-white nudes. The projector sat on a dumpstered card table that often collapsed, throwing the lurid images into the night sky. This never really bothered the audience; they kept themselves busy inside their sleeping bags while the projectionist fussed with table legs and reels of film. It was the first time in thirty years old Guido Gambini had to give his tenants a noise complaint warning.

In August 2004, Trinket Campbell bought a wheelbarrow's worth of sod and introduced the back garden to something completely different: grass. Each day, for weeks, she stood outside with the garden hose and watered the grass to root. Not much later, Zoya Feiz would tell stories about how she fell in love with the impish girl with muddy bare feet and a soaking wet sundress standing in her own backyard.

Trinket's feet pressed into the damp earth. Outside there weren't any walls to stub her toes on. She imagined grass tickling her back, mud on her knees; she wanted to get her hands dirty.

More than this she wanted to experience whatever Zoya had in store for her, and she appreciated that Zoya wouldn't want her best corset, her stiletto boots, and other fetish finery ruined in the dirt. “Where can I hide?” she asked herself, turning back toward the house. A warm glow caught her attention, and although she couldn't see exactly where the light was, after stumbling several steps toward it she guessed it was coming from the basement window. Had Zoya set up a play scene in the basement? “For the love of fuck,” Trinket said to herself. The basement creeped her out more than the attic could ever hope to.

Her fear was largely Zoya's fault—whenever something needed to be done down there Zoya would chime in with tales of spiders and bats and loose murderers hiding under the stairs.