Startled, I drop the tongs and, with them of course, the beetle. But as I lift it, a shriek fills the room-a noise one might expect from a mynah bird or a cat whose tail is caught in a door, not from anything this size. “I will rescue you,” I say, bending down. I’m not sure if beetles bite and don’t want to make that experiment right now. In the kitchen, I find some plastic corn tongs with wide flat ends that should hold the beetle gently and also keep it at arm’s length. Why not move it to the open window just above the tub so it can fly away? As I’m wringing them out, I notice a large black beetle wedged into a tiny space between the curling linoleum and the wall. (When I first tried this, I thought moisture might seep into the mattress and rot it but it doesn’t-by morning, the towel and bed are usually dry.)Īfter groping my way along the hallway to the bathroom, I take two towels from the shelf, then dunk them in the tub half full of cold water.
The bed is too hot to remain in, but I recall that trick my Oakie cousin taught me years ago: Put a wet towel down and lie on it.
I’m lying in bed drenched in sweat, billowing the sheet to aerate myself, imagining I’m on a straw pallet on the floor of a mud hut, hearing the drums from a nearby village where others are also restless at this hour. It’s late October - one of those sweltering nights when the heat rises from the valley floor and the temperature at midnight is still 95 degrees.
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