X: Fire Ants

Chapter: Kid, Killing Fire Ants

My big sister screams and yells like she's getting killed until my
father runs out of the house. He leaves the sliding glass door open,
and I shut it behind me. My sister's yells scare me so I stay on the
porch, the concrete hot under my bare feet. She is jumping all over the
yard, her hands like two white bats as she swats at her rear end. Her
friend, Jamie, stands next to the clubhouse, ignoring my sister's
strange dance across the grass. Jamie has her head turned around as far
as it can go so she can get a look at her own fat behind. It would be
funny if it weren't for the low moaning I can hear just under my
sister's screams. The sliding glass door starts to open and then closes
again behind me. I turn around and see my mother through the glass, her
arms crossed and her face blurry. I turn back to the yard.

My father has grabbed my sister by the arm, making her stay in one spot
while her legs and feet pump away at the grass. For a second my sister
is quiet, but I know she is just filling up with air so she can let out
another howl. When it comes out, so full of hurt and impatience and
plain anger, it makes my skin crawl. My mother stays inside.

"Ants, ants, ants!" my sister screams. My father lifts up her shirt and
in one fast move pulls her shorts down, showing her butt to all the
world. From the porch I can see the red dots on her skin, but also I'm
embarrassed for my sister, who won't even walk out of the bathroom in a
towel. Instead she takes her clothes with her and gets dressed in the
bathroom, the door always locked. As soon as her shorts are down, my
sister stops hopping and pulls them back up with both her hands. I look
over at my sister's friend, Jamie, who has stopped looking for ants on
her own bottom. She watches my sister and father with a look I know is
close to laughing.

"Goddammit!" my father yells, "Hold still!"

"Let me go!" my sister yells back. She gets loose from my father and
runs for the house, Jamie right behind her. My sister pushes me out of
the way while my mother opens the door and lets the girls inside. The
door shuts but I can still hear my sister crying, just as loud as
before.

I walk out into the yard, towards the clubhouse, where my father is
pushing aside the tall grass and yellow dandelions with his shoe. He
does this slowly, as if something might jump out at him.

"Son of a bitch," he says, crouching down in front of an ant pile that
is so tall and full of ants it looks like one big living thing. Part of
the ant pile is hidden behind the weeds and some pieces of plywood. The
plywood is half-buried in the ground, and the ants have pushed their
dirt right up against it so that it forms a wall.

"Fire ants," my father says to himself, because I'm pretty sure he
doesn't know I'm standing behind him. I'm barefoot and ready to run at
the first sign of trouble. My father stands up, seeing me, but doesn't
say anything more. I push my bare feet into the grass as he walks past
me to around to the back of the clubhouse. He stores his lawnmower and
a rusty old can of gasoline there. He comes back with the can, fiddling
with the cap that I know is almost impossible to get off.

I don't usually kill bugs, which crunch or ooze or stink when you
squash them, but these ants are bad. They deserve to have gasoline
poured over them, for biting my sister and making her scream and hop
all over the yard. When my father gets the cap off of the gas can, I
move in a little closer, but still out of his sight so he won't tell me
to go back inside.

I hear crying from inside the clubhouse just as my father starts
pouring the gasoline onto the ants. It's so low that I might have
missed it if I hadn't moved in closer. I check the packed down dirt
that's kind of a front porch for the clubhouse. There are no ants, so I
make my way to the clubhouse door, walking on my tippy toes just in
case. I look inside.

The floor of the clubhouse is covered in ants, in long lines that go
from one end to the other. Some of the ants are bunched together in
patches as big as quarters. Two old chair cushions sit on the floor,
one to the left and the other right by the wall where the ants are
coming in. This must be where my sister was sitting. I look closer. The
top of the cushion is in motion as the ants carry crumbs and candy back
and forth, over the edges of the cushion and down to the floor. The
ants make such perfect lines that it looks the stuffing in the cushion
is leaking onto the floor. I hear the crying again, and look up.

My little sister is bunched up on top of the army cot in the clubhouse.
She's pushed herself tightly into a corner, her knees up to her chin
and her hands grabbing the two-by-fours that support the walls. Our
eyes meet, and I lift a finger to my lips to her let her know to be
quiet. I don't see any ants on the army cot, but I don't want my little
sister to start yelling. The ants can't hear, I think, and for now they
only seem interested in the crumbs and candy on the floor.

I hear my father moving around, the gasoline splashing. "Take that," he
says, "And that." I can smell the gas, a smell I like even though it
makes my head hurt if I smell it too long. I could yell for my father,
but I'm afraid of the ants and what they might do. They might head
towards me, take me for bait. I look down at the clubhouse floor again.
Except for the big patches of ants, there's space between them. I could
walk between them on my toes. I'm mad at my sister, and her friend, who
didn't say my little sister was still inside the clubhouse. They should
be out here right now.

Something hits the side of the clubhouse so hard that my little sister
loses her grip on the wall. The noise scares me into motion. I put one
foot between a stream of ants, and then run on my toes into the
clubhouse, my arms out in the air while I try to keep my balance. Very
soon I am front of my little sister, who has grabbed hold of the wall
again. I have to pull her fingers loose so I can grab her around the
middle and run. I don't look down, because I know my feet are covered
in ants.

Outside, I see that there are no ants on my feet. My little sister and
I walk to the house. She slides the glass door open and goes inside,
but I stay on the concrete porch. I have walked through the ants
without getting bitten, but I'm worried they might be spreading into
the grass, following me. I can see them if they come onto the
porch.

I watch my father push at the ant pile with a stick. There are so many
ants streaming between his legs that it looks like he's peeing. He
moves sideways and I can see a can of lighter fluid in his hand, the
same stuff he puts on the barbeque grill. The lighter fluid lights up
so fast that if you're not careful, it will burn off your eyebrows.
We're not allowed to play with it, and the cap comes off a lot easier
than the cap on the gas can.

My father squeezes the lighter fluid can so hard that it makes a
farting noise, then he throws it behind him. He steps back and trips on
something hidden by the grass. For a second I think he might fall onto
the ground, which is surely filled with ants trying to get away from
the gas and the lighter fluid and stick my father has been using. But
my father stands up straight, and throws his cigarette onto the ants.
There's a loud whoosh, some black smoke, and then fire.

"There's a queen in there somewhere," my father says. "She won't get
out this time. No siree, she won't."

Behind me I can still hear my big sister, her crying just a small sound
now, while in front of me I picture an ant with a crown on her head,
running from the fire and my father, who will never let her get
away.