A Spider in the Tub

By Michael Matre

A Spider in the Tub is a collection of short stories, essays, poems, and one commercial script, none of which have ever been published or produced. They were all written over a period of many years and tossed into a box in my den with the hope of one day finding a way to share them with readers. Page Publishing has once again given me that opportunity, just as they did with my first book, Why I Never Had Kids.The title accurately describes the book's contents, as each entry will very likely surprise, even sting you in some way, and take you to places you never expected to go. Some of the short stories, particularly "To Steal a Tombstone," "Cruel and Unusual Punishment," and "The Devil in the Deep, Dark Water" may make you squirm and send a sharp chill from your toes, up your neck, and into your brain, causing your eyes to abnormally widen. Read them by a gentle fire late at night when you are alone to get their maximum effect.I believe that you will find the essays to be entertaining and informative, especially the pieces entitled "The Day I Met Jane Fonda," "An Evening with Jimmy Webb," and "Meeting the Clooneys." I am sure that local readers will very much enjoy "Crosley Field Memories."The poems will take you down a snaking road that is pleasant, sweet, jovial, dark, and rocky. They represent life's perpetual roller-coaster ride of human feelings. Long before you read this book's final word, you will more than likely ask yourself, Where does Matre come up with some of this stuff?Don't worry. The kid's all right. I'm just using and enjoying God's gift to me and doing what I do best—write!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662425158

Book preview

To Steal a Tombstone

Alvin and I joined The Scary Deeders just before the end of the sixth grade. The Scary Deeders was a club consisting of all the fellows in the neighborhood between the ages of twelve and fourteen, except for me and Alvin. Alvin and I were sort of the loners of the neighborhood and figured that we should belong to something. The Scary Deeders seemed as good as anything.

The club held its meetings once a week on Friday afternoons during the school year and three afternoons a week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday during the summer. The Scary Deeders were dedicated to the supernatural. They had as their clubhouse, a dirty, rickety shed that stood behind the condemned house on the half-acre lot at the corner of Mempker and Oak Streets.

After we had been tentatively approved for membership, Tom Watts, The Scary Deeders’s vice president, took Alvin and me to a special meeting on a sultry afternoon during the first week of June. Miles Monk, the president, stood us up in the middle of the group and explained what we had to do before we could be accepted as full-fledged members.

You guys wanna join together, so you hafta take your initiation together, said Miles. Here’s what you gotta do. You hafta go into the Twin Cemetery at night and cop a tombstone. Don’t matter which one. Don’t matter what size. Just as long as you cop one, that’ll be good enough. Bring it to the regular meeting. That’ll be on Friday. Then we’ll all go over there so you can show us where you got it just to make everything official.

After Miles was certain that he had set us straight as to what our initiation was, he briefed us on the mission of The Scary Deeders.

The thing we do is plan and pull off scary deeds, said Miles.

Like what, exactly? I asked.

Well, like what you’re about to do. Whatever we can think of. Scary stuff. You know, he replied.

You guys ever spent a night in a haunted house? I asked.

No, replied Miles. "That’ll come later. We hafta do a lot of planning for something like that."

Yeah, I guess so, I agreed. What do you think, Alvin?

Umm, yeah, answered Alvin, worming his finger into his ear and dislodging a tiny insect.

Okay, then, said Miles. Meeting adjourned. You two know what you hafta do. See you Friday afternoon at three o’clock right here. Miles started for the door.

Hey, Miles, what about the magic words? asked Johnny York. We have to say ’em before we go. We always say ’em.

Oh, yeah, answered Miles. That’s right, Johnny. Almost forgot about that. Thanks. Okay, guys. Everybody get in real tight around Mike and Alvin.

The group encircled us. Miles uttered the magic words as everyone joined hands: Mambo, Katambo, Bajombo!

The rest of The Scary Deeders mumbled the words that sounded like a voodoo curse, then retreated from the shed. Miles was the last to leave.

See you guys on Friday, and don’t forget the tombstone.

Alvin and I nodded.

I didn’t relish the idea of stealing that death marker any more than Alvin did, and Alvin was scared to death. He was a firm believer in spooks and just plain rattled. As far as I was concerned, it wasn’t the idea of being around dead people that bothered me. It was the stealing. I had never stolen anything in my life except for second and third base while playing Knothole Baseball, but I did want to be a Scary Deeder, and so did Alvin. We had to complete our initiation, and that meant getting into Twin Cemetery, swiping a tombstone, and getting out without getting caught, or as Alvin put it, Without getting pounced upon by the ghosts who are just waiting to choke the life out of us.

It was Thursday evening when Alvin and I met at the corner of Mempker and Oak Streets with spades, a rusty wagon, and a burlap sack before proceeding to the cemetery to swipe one of the tombstones. The wind was strong and very warm. It smelled like rain.

We stole into the graveyard around 7:30 p.m. The Twin Cemetery was an antiquated, seldom visited burial ground, thinly wooded and covered about an acre. A decadent three-foot high stone wall guarded its perimeter. The land was not well-kept, and the ivy that matted the graveyard floor grew wild and thick, strangling the trees and hugging the tombstones. Most of the people buried there had died in the nineteenth century. One of the oldest stones was dated 1867. I could barely make out the date or the name, Jonathon Stillwell. The name was a famous one in Smithville. Local history indicates that he was a Civil War veteran, a gunner in Lee’s Legion. Alvin and I selected his tombstone as the one to steal. We figured that it would impress The Scary Deeders.

We set to work with our spades, hastily chopping and pulling away the ivy and turning over the hard, brown dirt at the base of the weathered stone. All of a sudden, Alvin stopped digging.

What do you suppose Mr. Stillwell thinks about us scrapin’ around his grave? he said, his voice slightly quivering.

I guess nothin’ since he’s dead, I replied.

What if he comes to life, gets real mad, and thrashes us? said Alvin.

Alvin, I said, the man’s dead. The dead can’t hurt you, only the living.

"But what if he does come to life?" said Alvin.

"Then he’d be one of the living dead. You know, like a zombie," I said.

Maybe we oughta quit this diggin’ and just get out of here, Mike, Alvin suggested.

I thought you wanted to join The Scary Deeders, I countered.

Yeah, I do, but…, answered Alvin.

Well, then come on and dig! I said.

Look, Alvin, Stillwell’s been dead for over a hundred years!

Don’t worry about it! I insisted.

I began to wiggle the stone back and forth. It was loosening up. Alvin and I subtracted more dirt and wiggled the stone once more.

She feels pretty loose now! said