She flew toward the cockroach and they seemed to battle for a moment, curling and twisting and tussling with each other, the cockroach trying to escape, the wasp trying to make her first sting.
And then she did — with a quick flick she inserted her stinger into the roach’s spine, into its central nervous system. In only seconds the cockroach lost control of its front legs and collapsed.
That was the first sting, the one that paralyzed the roach just enough to set it up for the second sting.
The one into its brain.
The venom of this second sting was a dopamine inhibitor. It wouldn’t stop the roach from moving, but it would stop it from moving under its own volition. Once this venom was injected, even after the venom from the first sting wore off and the roach had control of its legs again, it would not try to run away. It would be completely under the wasp’s control.
Now she wrapped herself carefully and tightly around her prey’s head so that she would be able to slide her stinger into the precise spot she was looking for. Just a millimeter to either side and she would kill the roach. She had to get it right the first time, but evolution had taught her what to do.
Truly remarkable.
Of course Cyrus was aware that this was an act, not a genetic trait; neither was it a behavior that she was able to pass on to her offspring. Inexplicable, yes.
So be it.
She knew how to do it, so instinct must have taught her.
But now, as he watched her position that stinger, he thought again of the astonishing precision of this act. How could any wasp ever develop these two separate venoms, know to look for this type of a roach in the first place, then know exactly where to make each of the stings? She wouldn’t be able to reproduce unless she could do all of this, so how could this knowledge ever be passed on genetically? It was almost enough to make a person believe that there was a designer behind the process of natural selection.
But would the benevolent deity that religious people believe in really design something like this? A wasp that could create, for lack of a better term, a zombified cockroach to use as a living host for her offspring?
A god with a streak of sadism, sure, but a loving one? That seemed incomprehensible.
The wasp pressed her stinger against the roach’s head.
Inserted the stinger into its brain.
Injected the venom.
And waited for it to take effect.
Charlene guides the car into a parking space.
It only takes us a few minutes to walk across campus to the Lawson Center.
We enter through the front door and decide to take the elevator instead of the stairs down to Dr. Tanbyrn’s office on the lower level.
And as we wait for the doors to open, she asks me about my father.
Old Wounds
“So now that we know you can get cell reception,” Charlene begins, “maybe later — after we meet with Tanbyrn — you can get in touch with your dad.”
“I’m not sure that’d be the best thing to do.”
The elevator doors slide open and we step inside.
“What happened between you two, anyway? You never told me.”
I press the “L” button. “We didn’t do so well together after my mom left. He changed, he …” Is there a good way to say this? Not really. Just the simple way, the blunt truth: “He became angry.”
There’s so much more to explain, but it would be opening up a can of worms that I didn’t think this was the right time or place for.
The doors close and we descend.
On the lower level, Charlene is quiet as the doors whisk open again. She remains quiet as we exit and head down the hallway toward Tanbyrn’s office. Any blood that she or the assailant might’ve left behind last night on this level has been cleaned up, just as it was on the third floor.
“So, you’re saying he wasn’t just angry at her for leaving?” We’re halfway down the hall. “Not just at her?”
“I suppose that’s a good way to put it.”
As we approach the small reception area in front of Dr. Tanbyrn’s office, I see a man sitting on one of the chairs reading a magazine. A daypack rests on the floor beside him.
He looks up as we join him.
“Do you know if Dr. Tanbyrn is in?” I ask him.
He shifts his gaze from me to Charlene before answering, and when he does he clears his throat slightly. “No. Not yet.”
A sweet feeling came over Glenn. A secret rush of quiet power.
He could tell that they didn’t recognize his voice. Last night he’d tried to mask it, and apparently, it had worked. However, when he went on, he was somewhat tentative, testing the waters: “Do you know where he is?”
“I know he had a few things to take care of. We’re scheduled to meet with him at 2:45.”
“2:45?” Yes. This was working. It really was. Still no glimmer of recognition on their faces.
“Yes.”
“Well”—Glenn nodded knowingly—“I’m in no hurry. I can wait until you’re done.”
Charlene and I give him some space and sit on the other side of the room, a small footstool between us. I expect that now that we’re no longer alone, she’ll drop the subject of my father.
But she does not.
Instead she lowers her voice. “It’s not your fault that your mother left.”
“I know.”
“It’s …” She hesitates. “It would be good if you could try to fix things between the two of you. Between you and your dad.”
“I’m with you on that.”
Although the man across the room is still staring at his magazine, I can only imagine that he’s also doing what anyone would be doing in his situation if they heard two people nearby talking in hushed tones — eavesdropping.
Just in case he is, I go with Charlene’s assumed name. “Jennie, we’ve never been close.” I’m doing my best to not let the stranger hear me. “I don’t want to call him because it would be uncomfortable for both of us, it wouldn’t solve anything, it would just open up old wounds, and I think in the end one of us would probably say something he would regret.”
“How do you know it wouldn’t solve anything?”
“Experience.”
A moment passes.
Where is Tanbyrn?
“You know my dad died, right?” Her voice is low but has an intensity to it. “When I was twenty-five, I told you about that? Right after my divorce?”
Charlene had been married for only a short time before her husband decided he preferred the eighteen-year-old girls taking his high school lit class to her. She rarely spoke about it, and now I’m a bit surprised she’s even mentioned it.
“The car accident.”
She nods and it takes her awhile to respond. “I never had the chance to say goodbye to him. There were things between us that, well… should have been said. Things …” Her sentence trails off, and it’s clear that she’s deeply moved by the thoughts of the father she lost and the things she never told him. “Well, I think you understand what I mean.”
I’m not sure what to say. I do understand, and for her sake, as a way of showing that I empathize with her, I want to tell her that yes, I’ll call my dad and talk with him about all those things that accumulate over the years, but I already know he won’t want to see me or talk to me.
“Let me think about it. I’m not brushing you off. I need to figure out what I might say.”
She accepts that and agrees that it’s a good idea.
Then we’re both quiet.