The Anthill, Page 2

half-carried it up the cement stairs and down the walkway to the street, then returned for the trash can. He grabbed it and hauled it to the curb, muttering and cursing under his breath then went back to the shed to take off his gloves. They were swarming with ants.

  “Eechhh,” he said in annoyance, and shook the gloves off. Instinctively, he checked his arms and clothes, then scratched a sudden itch behind his left ear. Satisfied, he looked down at his gloves. The ants had regrouped, and were streaming together back behind the shed. He followed them, and rubbed his eyes when he saw it.

  The anthill was still there, but larger than last time. Ants moved in a steady flow in and out of the entrance, some carrying food, others sand or debris. But the entrance was different. His pen was standing erect to one side, and there was a group of soldiers surrounding it.

  He leaned down and examined the scene. Four ants had made a square around the pen, with each one standing motionless in a corner. A little beyond that, dozens of ants marched together, forming a living circle around it. He reached out for the pen, but hesitated when he saw the circle slow to a stop. Slender feelers touched one another, uncertain, then one ant broke off and scurried down the hill and towards Harold’s shoe. He waited, curious.

  The ant approached the sole of his shoe cautiously, pausing every few inches to wave its feelers in the air before moving forward again. Harold stood perfectly still, not wanting to frighten it off. Finally it seemed to gather its courage and climbed up the shoe. It stopped, facing him. It raised its feelers and front legs. Then it turned and climbed down and crawled eagerly back to the circle. Harold chuckled.

  “I hope this means we can be friends,” he said.

  The ants seemed to hear him, and started the march around the pen again.

  He stood up and looked around sheepishly. Then he chuckled again, and watched the pulsing circle of ants until the fading sunlight made it too hard to see.

  Harold sped home from work the next day, dropped his briefcase at the front door, and changed into his work clothes before he even said hello to Alice.

  “You’re home early,” she said as he passed through the kitchen.

  “I’ve got some things I needed to do around the house.”

  “Well, that’s a first,” she said. Then, without turning around, she added “And don’t bother rushing so you can get back to your toys.”

  Harold froze.

  “What’s that?”

  “I said don’t bother rushing your work outside so you can spend all your time in the basement with that damn boat of yours. I threw it away.”

  Harold’s hands started to sweat and he felt slightly sick. He pushed up his glasses and said “N-Now see here Alice, I--”

  She turned and looked at him. “No Harold, you see here!”

  She took a step forward and pointed her finger at him. “I’m sick and tired of you wasting your days and nights on these ridiculous hobbies while other husbands are improving themselves. Do you think Artie Graham plays with toy boats? Ridiculous!”

  “W-What did you do Alice?” He looked like an outclassed boxer.

  “I told you, I threw it away. Right in the trashcan.” She brushed her hands for effect.

  “And another thing,” she held up her finger and shook it at him. “There is an enormous anthill behind the shed. While you’re outside you can take that can of gasoline and get rid of them.”

  Harold blinked slowly. He mouthed something like a fish gasping for air, but no sound came out.

  Alice tapped him in the chest. “An anthill Harold. Get rid of it.”

  She stared hard at him until she was satisfied, then turned back to the sink, muttering. “Nasty, disgusting creatures.”

  Harold took a step towards the door, then stopped. He looked at the doorknob for a full minute, then turned around. He stared at Alice standing at the sink in her green housedress and apron, then blinked several times.

  “What?” Alice growled.

  Harold’s face was cold, but his voice was soft and warm. “What anthill?”

  She turned to face him. “Don’t tell me you haven’t seen that gigantic anthill behind the shed?”

  Harold shook his head dully.

  “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  Harold shook his head again. “No Alice, I just didn’t see any anthill when I was out there yesterday.”

  She glared at him.

  “You’re the idiot!” she finally screamed, and untied her apron.

  “Come on,” she said and stomped down the stairs. Harold followed her out the back door and back to the shed.

  She got there before him and jerked the empty trash can out of the way.

  “Right there Harold! Do you see it now?” She grabbed his arm and pulled him in front of the anthill.

  “What do you call that Harold?” She pulled over the other can and pushed it away with her foot. “And that? What do you call it Harold?”

  He looked down. In the light he thought he could just make out the circle of ants. They were still marching, guarding their monument. Harold looked around. It was later than he thought. The air was still warm, but it was getting dark.

  “What do you call it?” she asked again, pounding his arm with her fist.

  “Friends,” he finally said, and reached out with both hands and squeezed Alice’s neck until he couldn’t squeeze anymore. Then he crouched down and whispered. “Dinnertime.”