There aren’t that many things I live in fear of.
Ok, wait. Scratch that. There are many things I live in fear of, but few exist on a physical plane. I have no problem with public speaking (really). I don’t mind heights, I’ve come to terms with flying and zip-lining looks intriguing. (I will never, on the other hand, bungee jump or skydive. Those are the pastimes of stupid people, and I am not stupid.) If I discovered a tarantula or snake in my house, I would most assuredly want the animal out, but if I had to be the one to get it out, I could. When I first moved to this house and my ex-husband was out of town—as he was 60% of the time—I laid awake more nights than not in absolute terror, certain that someone was going to break in. I’ve now lived alone for well over a year and my worry about burglars is decidedly a thing of the past.
There is, however, The Crawlspace.
My house is a cape, so instead of an attic above the two upstairs bedrooms there is only a poorly insulated set of rafters just under the roof—a pitch-black space of about 3 or 4 feet. I could ignore that layer of unpatrolled dark except that for all the years I’ve lived here it’s been, off and on, host to Studio 54: Mouseworld. Hantavirus isn’t my favorite thing, and what with the torn and loose insulation’s attendant fiberglass floating through the air, I imagine the breathing conditions are pretty noxious in the crawlspace. Then there’s no floor, so moving around requires you use extreme dexterity while you can’t breathe or see and may get jumped by a pissed-off virus-carrying mouse.
Five years back my then-husband installed a sonic machine that deters pests, and it worked until a few months ago, which was exactly the moment Studio 54 set to re-rocking and rolling. One night I became convinced they were dragging a large object (the image of a suitcase loaded with acorns came to mind) across the floor. There are nights when they apparently need to stretch their legs, so they commence running from one end of the roof to the other. I’m not sure how many mice are up there, but the number 300 comes to my ears at 2 a.m., believe me. When it gets very loud I knock on the ceiling and tell them to keep it down. There is a beat or two of silence, after which I’m pretty sure I hear what equates to: Shh, shhhh! Damn it! Too loud! Another beat, and then: What the fuck? She’s a wimp. Party on, dudes!
My procrastination was working for the dudes—I was always just about to get to the hardware store to buy a new sonic whateveritwas; I was going up into the crawl space any minute. Then a few nights ago my youngest son called out for me in pure terror as he was falling asleep. Something was in his room, he said, and I knew immediately he had heard one of those wild-assed rodent parties. It brought out my maternal instinct. I held my son and explained what the noise was and how I was going to fix it. My oldest, enticed by his brother’s suffering, watched with bemusement nearby.
“Truly, Mom,” he offered with all sincerity, “the noise is getting freaking ridiculous.”
Armed with two sonic thingies and the electrical capability to deploy the same, I dressed for the mission carefully: a hoodie pulled over pony-tailed hair, gloves and a mask. I had the best flashlight I could find. I confess I didn’t really know what the crawl space looked like; I’ve only once before been part way up what would be a ladder if there was one, but is instead a slanted wall of insulation bisected by a single 2 x 4. Yesterday I scaled this wall with the determination that my son would no longer be frightened. I talked to the Studio 54 clientele the whole way. (I pictured them leaning back against the bar, squinting through the smoke. “Ok, I’m done with this party, boys,” was the type of fear-inducing threat I issued.) At the top of the wall I could see the cord leading into the blackness, the cord attached to the failed machine. For the first time, I climbed up into the crawlspace itself and trained my flashlight into the gloom.
Other than cobwebs, all I saw was insulation and rafters. There were no enormous vats of fungus and mold, no rigor-mortised rodent claws casting shadows against the wall. There was also utter silence. And while it was difficult to maneuver, what with being a crawlspace and all, I managed to complete the mission in only three climbs (I had to go back down to get a different extension cord, and I forgot the flashlight when I returned). Not much has felt as good as the hot shower I took afterward.
Will it work? I won’t know for a week or so. (It apparently takes a while for the mice to admit to each other that the high-pitched beeping sound is causing massive intraspecies mayhem—disasters such as gang war and chaotic foraging have to rise to terrible levels before they notice all hell has broken loose.) Last night I heard a few scrabbling dashes overhead, and a minute ago it sounded as if a cache of nuts broke free of a suspended storage bin. I’m hoping that means the ranks are crumbling up there.
The main thing? I’m not afraid of climbing into the crawlspace any more.
Now. Ask me how I feel about emotional pain.
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