Play & Book Excerpts
The Resilience of Red Thread
(She Writes Press)
© Catherine Marshall-Smith
I balance Jenna on my hip and rush past Eli to unlock the deadbolt, the chain, and the doorknob with one shaky hand. “I’m coming. Don’t leave,” I yell and yank the door open.
The exterminator’s aftershave hits me first. Polo, maybe? It’s been a while since I’ve been to a department store. He looks like a cowboy trying to be classy—blown dry hair and cologne. It could be my imagination, but even the kids stop crying for a minute and stare at him.
He sweeps off his velvety brown cowboy hat and bows to me. Yes, bows. He isn’t tall, and I can’t tell if there are muscles under his blue-and-white shirt with its mother-of-pearl buttons, but he couldn’t be more of a superhero if he were wearing a cape. The shirt is neatly pressed, and his jeans have arrow-sharp creases pointing down to his two-toned cowboy boots. I can tell they’re Stetsons with their hand-tooled leather. He’s wearing a huge belt buckle with Jake stenciled on it. He looks young but dresses old. I’m checking him out and it’s obvious. My eyes catch his, and his smile makes my face go hot. Geez, why don’t I just drool?
“I’m Jake from Triple-A Exterminators.” He holds out his card.
“I somehow figured that out,” I say.
He looks confused.
“I mean . . . your buckle . . . ” I look at the ceiling like I might have left something there. “I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just . . . well, I guess you meant for it to be read, right?” Oh my God,
now he thinks I’m a perv.
He clears his throat and deepens his voice. “You have a problem with a hornet’s nest, Miss, Mrs. Emily Miller?”
“Yes.” Who dresses like that to kill rats and bugs? His sandy hair looks like he must’ve used hair spray on it because it doesn’t move when he takes off his hat. Is this guy for real?
I look over his shoulder and see a bright yellow truck with a giant metal rat in a trap on the roof. AAA is written in red on the side. Yeah, weird as he is, he’s the exterminator.
I step back, and he comes right on into my kitchen. “The nest’s in back.” I dodge Dylan and scoot between the others. The kids have settled into activities that make the room feel like we’re inside a Super Mario race. Dylan’s banging on the xylophone. Elias shakes Legos out of a plastic fishbowl, and after they’ve clattered onto the hardwood floor, he shouts into the empty bowl, smiling as his voice bounces back to him.
“I have a daycare. You may have figured that out. I need that nest gone soon as possible. I mean, it’s not safe for the kids.” I’m proud of how I sound. Like an adult. Which I am. But like an adult-adult.
He raises his head and steps through to the back.
I nudge Eli’s hands away from the slider with my foot and shut the door. Kids inside, nest outside. Good. Their mouths cave when they see they’re trapped. “It’s to the right,” I say, and point.
“I can guarantee you the nest will be neutralized and you’ll be back in business by sunrise tomorrow.” He smiles. His two chipped front teeth form a semicircle.
“Think I need to send the kids home?” I ask. I so need him to say no. I want him to tell me I’m a good, responsible caregiver and I don’t have to shut down the daycare.
“If you keep them inside, they’ll be fine.” His eyes fall on my left finger, where only a dent remains.
I could pull the curtains closed over the glass doors, tell the Moms I did it to try to keep the sun out, the room cool. I bounce a little on my toes. “You’ve got a deal, Mister,” I say, sticking out my hand to shake his.
He holds out the clipboard with the contract. “I have to ask this: are you over the age of eighteen?”
“Just made legal drinking age.” A smile presses into my cheeks without me having to fake it.
He hands me a pen, and I scan to the bottom of the contract. Seven hundred dollars! I picture my last ATM receipt. I’ve got two hundred and thirty-seven dollars and some cents in the bank.
The exterminator’s aftershave hits me first. Polo, maybe? It’s been a while since I’ve been to a department store. He looks like a cowboy trying to be classy—blown dry hair and cologne. It could be my imagination, but even the kids stop crying for a minute and stare at him.
He sweeps off his velvety brown cowboy hat and bows to me. Yes, bows. He isn’t tall, and I can’t tell if there are muscles under his blue-and-white shirt with its mother-of-pearl buttons, but he couldn’t be more of a superhero if he were wearing a cape. The shirt is neatly pressed, and his jeans have arrow-sharp creases pointing down to his two-toned cowboy boots. I can tell they’re Stetsons with their hand-tooled leather. He’s wearing a huge belt buckle with Jake stenciled on it. He looks young but dresses old. I’m checking him out and it’s obvious. My eyes catch his, and his smile makes my face go hot. Geez, why don’t I just drool?
“I’m Jake from Triple-A Exterminators.” He holds out his card.
“I somehow figured that out,” I say.
He looks confused.
“I mean . . . your buckle . . . ” I look at the ceiling like I might have left something there. “I didn’t mean to stare. It’s just . . . well, I guess you meant for it to be read, right?” Oh my God,
now he thinks I’m a perv.
He clears his throat and deepens his voice. “You have a problem with a hornet’s nest, Miss, Mrs. Emily Miller?”
“Yes.” Who dresses like that to kill rats and bugs? His sandy hair looks like he must’ve used hair spray on it because it doesn’t move when he takes off his hat. Is this guy for real?
I look over his shoulder and see a bright yellow truck with a giant metal rat in a trap on the roof. AAA is written in red on the side. Yeah, weird as he is, he’s the exterminator.
I step back, and he comes right on into my kitchen. “The nest’s in back.” I dodge Dylan and scoot between the others. The kids have settled into activities that make the room feel like we’re inside a Super Mario race. Dylan’s banging on the xylophone. Elias shakes Legos out of a plastic fishbowl, and after they’ve clattered onto the hardwood floor, he shouts into the empty bowl, smiling as his voice bounces back to him.
“I have a daycare. You may have figured that out. I need that nest gone soon as possible. I mean, it’s not safe for the kids.” I’m proud of how I sound. Like an adult. Which I am. But like an adult-adult.
He raises his head and steps through to the back.
I nudge Eli’s hands away from the slider with my foot and shut the door. Kids inside, nest outside. Good. Their mouths cave when they see they’re trapped. “It’s to the right,” I say, and point.
“I can guarantee you the nest will be neutralized and you’ll be back in business by sunrise tomorrow.” He smiles. His two chipped front teeth form a semicircle.
“Think I need to send the kids home?” I ask. I so need him to say no. I want him to tell me I’m a good, responsible caregiver and I don’t have to shut down the daycare.
“If you keep them inside, they’ll be fine.” His eyes fall on my left finger, where only a dent remains.
I could pull the curtains closed over the glass doors, tell the Moms I did it to try to keep the sun out, the room cool. I bounce a little on my toes. “You’ve got a deal, Mister,” I say, sticking out my hand to shake his.
He holds out the clipboard with the contract. “I have to ask this: are you over the age of eighteen?”
“Just made legal drinking age.” A smile presses into my cheeks without me having to fake it.
He hands me a pen, and I scan to the bottom of the contract. Seven hundred dollars! I picture my last ATM receipt. I’ve got two hundred and thirty-seven dollars and some cents in the bank.
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Catherine Marshall-Smith realized her calling to be an author after many years teaching 6th grade writing. She published her debut novel, American Family, in 2016, and the novel has sold internationally. She earned her bachelor’s degree from UC Berkeley in English literature, a teaching credential from San Jose State University, and a writing credential from UCLA, where she was nominated for the James Kirkwood Award for excellence in the writing of fiction.
Catherine is in charge of philanthropy with the Women's Club of Marin and The Philanthropic Educational Organization (PEO) of Novato, California. She lives with her husband in the San Francisco Bay Area. The Resilience of Red Thread is her second novel. Follow Catherine on:
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