I stand in the kitchen, flyswatter raised, eyes darting. It's not our house--my mother found it on Craigslist three years ago, and for one week every summer since, we make it our own. Lake Champlain becomes our backyard, the magnificent sunsets become our sunsets, and the flies become our flies.Currently, those flies have invaded our kitchen/living room/dining room space. At first, I tried to practice a live-and-let-live policy, but after brushing away an inquisitive insect from my totally-not-an-old-Tamora-Pierce novel for the umpteenth time, I realized that it was time to go to war.
And so, lady knight that I am, I am standing in the kitchen, prepared to do battle. I hear a buzz. My eyes narrow. My grip on the flyswatter tightens, but I don't make a move. I've been at this a while, and I've started being haunted by phantom flies--they're driving me insane. I feel like Ahab, pursuing a billion buzzing Moby Dicks. (For a second I think of a man in white, flying across a stage on rollerskates..."Ahabbb...AHABBB..." But it's an inside joke with people who aren't here, so I can't share the moment.)
THERE. A fly by the teapot. I bring the swatter down too late and the insect buzzes away. I curse. My mother, seated by the window, laughs at me. She doesn't ask me to keep it down, even though she's tearing through The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo at her usual breakneck pace. One of those damn flies got in her tea this morning. She understands that means war, and she'd probably be okay with the total annihilation of flies everywhere.
Willa is bent over a puzzle on the edge of the room. She's been working on the 450-piece monstrosity for over a day, and the image--unda' the sea--is nearly assembled. She angrily swats at a fly with her hand, getting visibly frustrated. "There's another swatter under the stairs," I suggest. She goes to rummage for it.
Through the glass sliding door, I can see my dad struggling with the grill. He has demanded that we all call him "Grillmaster" for tonight at least, as he will be preparing Steak (which demands the capital letter since we only eat once a year when we're on vacation). Beside the Grillmaster is the Grilldog. Bryce is obviously torn between two difficult alternatives: he could stay outside with my dad and scrounge up a treat, or he could come inside and hunt the flies he hates so much.
I should take a moment to note that Bryce doesn't hate many things in this world. When it comes to flies, though, his is genocidal in his rage. The problem is that he is absolutely terrible at hunting them. He begins by stalking them like a lioness on the grassy plains of Africa, peering around couches and other furniture. He invariably ends up twitching around in galumphing circles as the cruel fly taunts him.
Outside, Bryce makes up his mind. He moves the the door and stares inside, yellow eyes not quite pointing in the same direction, tongue spilling out of his mouth, pink against golden fur.
My mother lets him in just as Willa rejoins me with the other flyswatter. All three of us--lethal, fly-killing ninjas--patrol the space. The Grillmaster watches us through the glass, holding back laughter.
A cry--Willa lunges at the dining room table, flailing. "I got it!" A moment later, I pound an insect into oblivion on the couch. The canine third member of our team jumps for a (possibly imaginary) fly and ends up on his back, tongue lolling. My mother rubs his stomach as a consolation prize, and he contents himself with eating the fly I killed.
Willa and I, who have possibly been watching too much Lord of the Rings lately (because Willa is determined to see them with "a woman's eyes") do a many forearm-handshake of victory.
A buzz by my ear. Both our flyswatters stand at the ready. We set off patrolling again. There is no rest for the fly-killing ninjas.
