Caterpillers

Caterpillars

The lights are off in the house. The toaster doesn’t work. Neither does the television. My wife is furious, standing over me while I lie on my side on the sofa, blaming me for the electricity being turned off, calling me irresponsible for not having mailed the check.

I sit up on the sofa, tuck my legs up and try and explain. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, apparently not wanting to hear it.

“And here it comes,” she says. “Another lame excuse.”

“I did write the check,” I tell her. “I wrote it and even stuffed it in the envelope. But when I went to lick the gluey flap, I cut my tongue.”

I stick my bandaged tongue out of my mouth and my wife looks at her fingernails. “Thee,” I say, my tongue still protruding out between my lips.

She looks up from her nails and says, “So you slit your god damned tongue. What does that have to do with us being in the dark?”

“My tongue was bleeding like crazy,” I say. “Really bleeding.”

She sighs and heads across the room, sits down on the big wing chair by the window and buries her face in her hands. “Why?” she says. “Why? Why? Why?”

“I went to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror to look at my tongue. You won’t believe what happened when I stuck my tongue out.”

“No I won’t,” she says, leaning forward in her chair. “I don’t believe anything you say.”

“These caterpillars started to climb out of the cut,” I tell her. “They crept out of my mouth and dropped into the sink, crawled over the tile and filled the toilet and the tub. I couldn‘t squish them fast enough.”

My wife shakes her head and studies her nails again.

“They kept coming out. More and more of them. Tons of them. So many that they made a big blooping noise as they filed the house. I squished them with my bare feet. Green goo everywhere. Hell. I had to put this bandage on my tongue just to slow down the flow.”

My wife looks up from her nails. “So just tell me what you did with the money,” she says.

“Caterpillar pellets,” I say. “I had to buy tons of caterpillar pellets to kill all those creepy things. And bandages. I had to buy bandages.” I stick my tongue out again. “Thee.”

“Do you have any idea how much I hate you when you lie?”

“I’m not lying. I swear.”

“Okay, Mister Truthful. Take the bandage off. I want to see those caterpillars for myself.”

For a long time I sit staring at my wife from across the room. Finally, I say, “You sure?”

“Take it off. Right now.”

I stick my tongue out and slowly unwrap the bandage.

“I knew you were lying,” she says. “There’re no caterpillars.”

Just then, I feel the cut on my tongue tingle. My tongue begins to quiver and I with my mouth open as wide as I can get it, I grip the arm of the sofa with both hands. They begin to come out of the slit. Butterflies. Clouds of butterflies. Orange and yellow and blue. Leaving my mouth in a steady stream, rising to the ceiling, darting across the room, perching on furniture.

“I knew you were a liar,” my wife says. “Caterpillars my ass.”