A Scarab Story

A Scarab Story

unfinished

August 2002

32 years old

Claire was studying a difficult passage in her score when she heard a buzzing by the balcony door. She thought at first it was either a really big fly or, God forbid, a bee that had gotten trapped inside. After a minute or two had passed and the fly or bee (the noise sounded larger than either) still hadn’t found its way out, Claire got up, set her flute on the chair, and began searching for it around the open door. She fluffed the sheers away from the frame, her eyes wide hoping to find the insect before it found her. It wasn’t long before she saw a large (very large, in Claire’s opinion) beetle-like thing disturbed from its perch in the folds of the sheers and hovering in the air.

“Oh nice,” she said, “a June bug. Little early in the day for you, isn’t it? Or was it a late night?”

It bounced off the frame of the door and onto the floor on its back. When it righted itself, Claire saw its black wings glistening in the sun, the light catching its opalescent, oil-on-water coloring. Claire bent for a closer look, and, surprised, she saw the design on its back. It wasn’t a June bug. She was looking at a Scarab. She was sure of it. The dung beetle idolized by the ancient Egyptians. Did Scarabs even live this far away from those desert climes, she wondered? If not, what was it doing out here in her small apartment, in the outskirts of Chicago?

Claire watched it in silence, admiring its shimmering beauty a few moments before rising again. She reached for her score and with the pencil that was tucked behind her ear, she guided the scarab onto the paper, then flipped it over the railing of the balcony. A gust of wind blew out of the still air, blowing the beetle back onto the tiles of the balcony.

“Shit,” Claire said. She was getting nervous. For all its ancient beauty and glory, a beetle is still a beetle by any other name, and she didn’t want its scary-looking jointed legs crawling on her skin, if given the chance. Holding her breath, and maintaining her calm, Claire guided the beetle onto the paper again. She scuttled to the railing and again, with a throaty noise, flung the beetle over the edge. This time, it spread its beetle wings and took flight. She watched it bumble heavily for a moment or two, then lost sight of it.

Puzzling over the appearance of an actual scarab in her living room—something she had never seen in life before, nor had she expected to—she returned to her chair and sat down. She replaced her score, and, raising the flute to her lips, began to go over the passage again.

Claire and Nicki walked out the front door of Orchestra Hall after rehearsal and headed down Michigan Avenue toward Bennigan’s. It was a warm early summer day, and the wind whipped Claire’s shoulder-length hair around her head in a dark swirling halo. She glanced at Nicki, whose short cropped ‘do stayed nicely put. “I’ve gotta get my hair cut. I really do. This is driving me nuts.”

Nicki laughed. “You say that all the time, but you never do. Either do it and move on, or don’t and shut up about it.”

Claire smiled and said nothing.

“Mmm-hmm.” Nicki said. “That’s what I thought.”

 They came to the end of the block and crossed the street. “Think Cute-Waiter-Guy will be there tonight?” Nicki asked.

“Dunno,” answered Claire.

“Think he’s an actor between jobs?”

“Dunno.”

“I’ll bet he is. Think he’s gay?”

Claire paused in the doorway. “I don’t know, Nicki. I hadn’t really thought about it. I was always too busy looking at his ass, to be perfectly honest. Why don’t you ask him?”

“Hmm. Maybe I will.”

The maitre d’ met them inside the door. “Table for two?”

Nicki nodded. “Yes.”

The maitre d’ led them to a table, but Nicki grabbed his arm. “Umm,” she began, pointing toward another part of the restaurant, “can we have one over there?”

Annoyed, the maitre d’ led to another table. “Is this what you had in mind?”

“Yes indeed. You’re very kind,” Nicki replied. Claire couldn’t tell if she was being facetious or not.

They sat down and picked up their menus, silent in the moments taken to choose the usual. It wasn’t long before Cute-Waiter-Guy approached them. Nicki kicked Claire under the table, grinning. He took their order and left. [show them flirting]

“Hey, you didn’t ask him if he’s gay.”

“I decided I couldn’t bear to know,” Nicki said. “I like my fantasy life the way it is, thank you very much.”

Their dinner arrived, and Claire says, hey you know what I found in my apartment the other day? A scarab. I thought at first it was a Junebug.”

Nicki paused a moment, looking at her friend. “A Junebug is a Scarab, silly.”

“Oh. Really?” said Claire, looking down at her plate, sifting through her salad.

Nicki nodded.

“I didn’t know that.” Claire stabbed a tomato-eighth and stuck it into her mouth. “Anyway, I saw one. I scooped it up with the Shostakovich piece and tossed it over the edge.”  

Nicki continued eating, unimpressed.

“The wind blew it back,” Claire continued. “even though there was no wind.”

Nicki grunted.

“I threw it back again and it disappeared. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m telling you. It was a frickin’ scarab. Same design and everything.

Nicki finally put down her fork and sipped her wine, knowing where the conversation was headed. “There are thousands of different kinds of scarabs, all sorts of shapes and colors. It didn’t necessarily come from Egypt, you know.”

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Oh, I believe you. I just find it hard to believe that one like that was here in Chicago, though. Maybe it crawled out of the Egyptian exhibit at the Art Institute? You know, flew in with the cargo, or something.”

Claire was embarrassed. “Make jokes, if you want to. I saw what I saw, and I think it means something.”

Nicki made a noncommittal noise. “Did you know the Egyptians used the scarab as a symbol of rebirth, resurrection? New life?” she said, eager to move on to another topic.

Claire felt the blood leave her face and she put down the slice of French bread she’d been nibbling on. “Why do you say that?” She felt panic rising within her.

Nicki looked up and frowned. “Because it’s true. What’s up with you today?”

“How do you know all that? About scarabs?”

Nicki laughed. “My college boyfriend dared me to take an entomology class to fulfill an elective, so I did. Couldn’t pass up a dare. Why? Are you questioning my authority?”

“No, Nix, I’m not.”

“Good. Now how about that musician exchange? Are you doing it?”

Claire shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

Nicki looked at Claire levelly. “I think you should.” She paused. “What’s up with Craig these days, anyway? Have you heard from him?”

“Of course not. We broke up, remember? Why would he call?”

“Hmm. Well, I think you should go. The London Symphony would be lucky to have you for a season. Do you good to get out of here for a while, too. You know the position is yours for the taking…”

Claire looked dumbfounded. “Have you forgotten that Craig is in the Symphony? Why would I do that to myself?”

Nicki shrugged. “I know you want to go, that’s all.  Maybe date that cute percussionist they have. Give Craig something to think about. C’mon,” she said, picking up her glass again. “Let’s drink on it. …Where’s your wine?”

Claire’s face colored. “I didn’t order any.”

Nicki said nothing for a moment, considering this departure from their indelible routine. Claire loved to drink as much as Nicki. She shrugged again and held up her glass. “To London.”

Claire raised her mineral water and smiled weakly. “To London.”

At Claire’s apt. Reflect on Carl and relationship, the pregnancy test-box on bathroom counter… toses it into the trash, takes one more look at thr esult, tosses that away and writes note on telephone message board: “Make doctor appointment.”

At her apartment, Claire walked into her bedroom and undressed. She stood in front of her full-length mirror and examined her body: smallish breasts, narrow hips, flat butt, taut stomach. All seemed normal. She pulled on a t-shirt and padded into the bathroom, where she brushed her teeth and peed. On the back of the toilet was small white box from the pharmacy. She picked up the stick that was laid on top of it and examined it one more time. An unmistakable plus-sign showed at one end. She scooped up the box and threw it and the stick into the trash. In the kitchen she stuck a Post-it on the phone: Make doctor appointment.

It was a warm night, and Claire opened a window and curled under the sheets of her bed, a light blanket thrown over her. She turned off the light and leaned back on the pillow, thinking about Craig. How he had immediately claim to that side of her bed, next to the reading lamp so he could study his music and smoking one last cigarette before falling asleep. How he had practically lived with her during the nine months of his visit to the states. He had been part of last year’s exchange with the London Symphony, one musician from each orchestra traded, borrowed, loaned for an entire season. Nearly every night, they’d returned to Claire’s apartment, he’d lay his violin on the chair in the corner of the living room, toss his clothes in the corner of her bedroom, claimed her side of the bed after lovemaking. For a few months, they’d shared a life together, and before Craig returned to London, he’d broken it off. [what is a season?] Would it be too presumptuous to do the exchange this year? Would Craig think she was following him around? Nicki was right, Claire did want to go to London. It was the chance of a lifetime.

Claire wondered how much Nicki knew. Did she suspect Claire was pregnant? Claire didn’t think so, but that speculative gaze Nicki threw when they left the restaurant made Claire uneasy. She didn’t know why. Nicki was her best friend, why shouldn’t she be told? Claire shrugged deeper under the sheets and closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think about it anymore.

The next day, Claire was packing her things together, flute, music, pencil, old ratty sweater—it always got so cold in the hall, even in the summer especially with the air conditioning—mumbling to herself how the flutist next to her was always out of tune. “Someone should pay her to take breath support lessons,” she grumbled. “Always out of tune. Drives me nuts…”

Nicki wound her way through the clarinets until she was standing at Claire’s side.

“Claire!” shouted their director, Mia. “What about London? I need an answer tomorrow morning.”

Claire nodded and waved. “I’ll let you know.”

Nicki looked at her. “So? Haven’t you decided yet?”

“No.”

“I think you should do it.” Nicki nodded in a knowing way. “It’ll be good for you. You should go.”

Claire sighed and hefted her backpack over one shoulder. She didn’t want to mention Craig’s name, the one reason why she shouldn’t go.

“Forget him,” Nicki ordered, knowing Claire’s mind. “He’s nothing. He’s not part of this decision. You should do it for yourself, not neglect your dream for the sake of one man, Claire. He’s an asshole. He left you. He’s not part of your life anymore.”

And I’m having his baby, Claire thought. God help me, I am. If there’s any reason to go it’s for that alone. He deserves to know. Then she nodded, and looked at Nicki.  “I’m doing it. I’ll go to London.”

Nicki broke into a large grin. “That’s my girl! You won’t regret it.” She turned toward the director’s retreating back. “Hey! Claire’s going to London!”

Mia turned around. “Is that final, Claire?”

“Yes. I’ll go.”

Mia smiled. “Wonderful. I’ll make the arrangements. Be ready to leave in two weeks.”

Nicki turned around again. “So it’s settled. Let’s celebrate! Some wine and take-out at my place?”

“I can’t. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in a half-hour.”

“So, the evening hasn’t even begun. Come after.”

“I can’t, Nicki. I’m sorry.”

Nicki pouted. “Fine then. Maybe another time.”

“Maybe.”

Nicki left her friend at the corner of Michigan and Jackson to catch the El back home. She was worried about Claire. Something was definitely up, but she was damned if she knew what it was.

Clair struggled with her keys, but finally managed to pull them out of the front pocket of her backpack with a jangle. She let herself into her apartment, letting her things tumble to the floor in a heap. A sudden wave of nausea overcame her and she rushed to the toilet, falling to her knees helplessly as she vomited into the bowl. When she was done, she opened her eyes blearily and wondered at the undigested state of the salad she’d eaten at lunch. She stood, supporting herself on the counter and brushed her teeth, then collapsed on the living room sofa.

The visit to the doctor confirmed her pregnancy, nine weeks along. That would put the time of conception right around the time Craig [ ]. Blah blah blah.

She wondered should she call him before she left for London, just to warn him? But almost immediately she pushed the idea away. Whatever she was, it wasn’t masochistic. In fact, she would rather enjoy the look on his face when he saw her walk in at rehearsal for the first time.

Claire got up and brewed some ginger tea, recommended by her doctor to help the nausea, and ate some Saltines. After an hour or so, she felt much better and decided to give Nicki a call.

“Hey, Nix. Is the offer still open for tonight?”

“You bet it is! Have you changed your mind?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“Great. I’ll be waiting with bells on.”

Claire sighed. Did anyone besides Nicki say that anymore?

They were curled on opposite ends of the couch in Nicki’s small, cozy apartment, eating Chinese take-out and watching When Harry Met Sally on video.

Nicki had a glass of wine, while Claire drank mineral water with lemon juice, which she’d picked up at a JJ Pepper’s on the way over.

“So what was the doctor visit for?” Nicki asked.

Claire looked into her box of shrimp-fried rice, picking at a length of onion. She took a deep breath and met Nicki’s stare. “I suppose I should tell you now that it’s official…”

Nicki nodded and waited, for once silent.

“Well, the fact is, I’m pregnant. I’m seven weeks now.”

Nicki said nothing at first. “My God. Craig’s right?”

“Yeah. Who else?”

“Is that why you decided to go? To London?”

“Ultimately, yeah.” She didn’t know what she expected when she told Craig. She hoped a miraculous about-face on Craig’s part. He’s see the folly of his ways and sweep her into his arms, kiss her soundly, and vow to love her and take care of her forever. She tried to push that hope, for all its irrationality, to the corner of her mind, into the little trash can there, and hit the delete button. But as much as she tried to banish such crazy thoughts, they refused to be so simply thrown out. She’d find a little trail, and, unable to help herself would follow it until the breadcrumbs led once again to her miserable fantasy. She had to face it. She still wanted Craig, and she hoped the baby would bring him back. It was that simple.

Nicki knew Craig for the asshole he was, and she knew Claire very well, indeed, but she held back all she wanted to say. Claire needed to find her own way, of that she was certain. It would do Claire no good to vent her suspicions of Craig and how he would react. Let her find out for herself.

“Well,” Nicki said, instead. “I guess that explains all the mineral water.” She reached out for Claire, who let herself be held and cried in Nicki’s arms.

As she boarded the plane, Claire wondered if she should have called Craig first, to warn him. Or to meet me at the airport, she thought. But she shook her head. No. She didn’t want him to meet her at the airport. She wasn’t even sure he would, had she asked. In a few hours, she would arrive at Heathrow airport, and she promised herself that whatever happened, she would make the most of her stay. Nine months was a long time to be away from Chicago, and despite Craig’s proximity, or maybe because of it, she hoped it would be enough time to clear her head. But what would she do when the baby was born? She hadn’t made any preparations for its coming. She had no place for it to sleep in her apartment… Babies can sleep anywhere for a short time, she told herself. She remembered the story of a college roommate who had a baby and it slept in a pulled-out dresser drawer for a few weeks before she and her husband, a young law student, could afford a bed for it. Certainly Claire could do the same? She berated herself for poor planning, and decided there was nothing to be done for it now. She would return home with a beautiful baby in her arms, and carry on with life, while it slept peacefully in its swaddling wraps next to her chair during rehearsals. Yes, that’s what she would do. That’s what she would have to do.

In London, Claire caught a taxi to her hotel, where she would stay until she checked in at LSO in a few days. They would then give her an information packet, including the address and keys to the flat of the other flutist whose place she was taking, where Claire would stay for the duration. The other flutist, Susan, Claire believed her name was, would stay at Claire’s apartment in Chicago. She felt nervous about the idea of a strange woman living in her space, but then wasn’t Claire doing the same? Susan couldn’t be much happier about it, could she?

She settled herself in at the hotel, and spent the next few days sightseeing, and envisioning elaborate fantasies of her reunion with Craig. Most of them with happy endings. The reality couldn’t have been further from the truth.

When Claire showed up at her first rehearsal, Craig was late and missed the director’s introduction, and hadn’t noticed her when he arrived. She glanced frequently toward the violins, and she could see part of his jaw, ear and the back of his head. She stared fixedly at him, boring holes in his neck, but still he didn’t turn around. Why should he, she reasoned. He hasn’t a clue I’m hear.

During the morning break, however, Claire found him standing outside the stage door, smoking with several other members of the orchestra. She approached him, laid a hand on his arm. “Hello, Craig.”

 He turned around, mid-sentence. He faltered. The light in his eyes died.

“Jesus God, Claire. What the fuck are you doing here?”

She smiled weakly, her eyes darting around the group of people. She whispered a general hello, to which a few had muttered their return, clearly expecting an ugly scene. She looked at Craig and mustered a brighter smile. “I’ve been exchanged.”

His brow furrowed, and he took her arm and led her inside, deeper backstage. “What the hell are you doing here,” he repeated.

“You don’t have to embarrass me in front of everyone—”  

“Embarrass you? You might well be embarrassed of yourself. You’re not bloody following me, are you? I made it quite clear when I left—”

“Look,” she interrupted, feeling more angry now than nervous, “don’t flatter yourself, okay? I wanted to be here, you know that. We’ve talked about it before. It has nothing to do with you…” Well, almost nothing, she amended to herself. “You don’t seriously think I would give up this opportunity just for your benefit, do you?”

Craig looked taken aback. “Uh, no, I suppose not.”

“Good for you. You’re showing improvement.” Claire felt she had the upper hand now, and was more sure of herself. “But as long as I have your attention, I think there’s something we should talk about.”

“Let’s not rehash the past, alright?” Craig ran a hand through his thick mop of hair, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

There was a shrill whistle behind them, coming from the stage. “What was that?” Claire asked.

Craig had already turned away, crushing his cigarette beneath his foot, and was walking quickly toward the stage. “Break’s over,” he said, without turning back.

“Damn,” she said, and followed the other musicians back to their places.

The next few days were equally frustrating. Craig was avoiding her, that was clear.