THE NEST

The storm window didn’t fit properly in the grooves, and somehow a queen got in and built her first few cells and then the workers matured and they constructed additional units until, clumped in the left-hand corner, facing east toward the Atlantic, with a perfect symmetry, a round nest appeared. They were working vigorously when he discovered them one afternoon, shortly after his arrival at the summerhouse. Hovering at the top of the window, they exited through the gap to forage the yard. The window shade kept the nest hidden for several days, but eventually—cleaning the windows—he rolled it all the way up, saw the nest, became enamored, and began studying it carefully. Now he feels an obligation to terminate the hive. To scrutinize it for another day—no matter what kind of intrigue and entertainment it might provide—would appear obsessive. The normal act of looking at the habits of the wasps as they go about their business, using his scientific background as an excuse for close study, the fact that he has always been interested in entomology, along with etiology, is beginning to look demented, he thinks, standing at the window, feeling his fingers twitch. As a surgeon, he has often pondered his fingers and their value to his practice—a lucrative orthopedic partnership focusing on the hands of highly paid athletes and musicians, along with a large share of standard knuckle jobs (he’s the master of the artificial joint), congenital abnormalities, and carpal tunnel fix-ups. His leave of absence was sparked by two major factors: (1) after eighteen years of marriage, his wife left him for another man, a young entertainment attorney named Richard Clayton; and (2) suddenly, he grew tired of staring into the beauty of the opened flesh, visceral, bright against the pale blue surgical drape, while the sound of his own breath behind his blood shield—once slightly romantic, soft, and alluring—had become annoying, a reminder of his own bodily functions and the simple stupidity of involuntary functions.

At the window, he stands looking at the nest, trying to ignore the hip-hop beat coming from downstairs, knowing that Andrea is watching videos against his wishes and that he should go down and confront her, but also feeling unable to do so, actually afraid to do so, because to make her stop watching would be to deny her yet another delight. And now, without her mother, all she has—aside from whatever love he can give—is delights in the form of her friends at sea camp, sea camp itself, ice cream (trips nightly to the premium ice cream outlet, or the cheaper frozen custard stand), and television. In the last two weeks she has become not only more assured in her manner but also, strangely, lighter, wispy in her uncaring attitude. Her arguments seem to shoot up from a great depth, surfacing at strange angles that have nothing to do with the issue at hand, he thinks, staring into the darkness. So if I did go down and speak to her, she would sit, shrug, snap off the set, and not say a word until, later, asking her to brush her teeth, she’d scream: You’re always telling me what to do, you’re always treating me like a little kid. I’m not a little kid anymore.