Excerpt: Goat's Head Soup

The stinkbug crawled into the tub while her shower was already in progress, hot water rinsing the shampoo out of her long hair and swirling suds down the drain. It stood still for a moment, getting the gist of the situation, antennae alert, insect sensors registering the situation. She waited for it to do the insect scramble, trying to climb back up the side of the tub, slipping sliding, falling on its back. Instead, it waved its antennae consideringly and proceeded forward.
Christina proceeded with the shower gel, rubbing it into her skin, watching the pattern of the shower spray farther into the tub, one drop striking the advancing insect squarely on the back. You’ve been warned, she thought. But it didn’t even hesitate, simply continued forward in its mechanical insect way, not flinching or turning aside from its purpose. More water drops struck it now, and then it reached the pool of water and was instantly swept into the current. Still there was no struggle, no frantic kicking of legs, as it swirled around her feet and down the drain, with a lingering smell of pine and vinegar the only reminder that a death drama had been played out in front of her eyes.
She was accustomed to the stinkbugs around the house, and occasionally even sharing her shower. They came in when the nights got cold and remained throughout the winter, alien life forms that hung on the walls, flew around the light fixtures, and sometimes even into her hair. A lot of them went down the drain – bathroom or kitchen sink, and sometimes even the shower. But she’d never seen one so obviously suicidal.
If only it were so easy. She closed her eyes and lifted her face to the water, holding her breath, turning up the heat so that it burned slightly, confirming her existence, her human substance. The water stung the healing cuts on her belly and thighs, but she kept her mind away from that. It wasn’t something you thought about. Not the way you thought about ropes and pills and sinking under deep, dark water and never coming up again.
The water began to cool and she shut it off, stepping out of the shower into the frigid bathroom, her skin going all to gooseflesh as she rapidly toweled off and wrapped herself in the ratty old robe. Money was tight, and Avista kept raising the price of electricity and she’d dropped the thermostat to 65. Warm clothes and blankets compensated for a comfortable temperature.
It was too late for breakfast. She’d been unable to summon the energy required to dig out of her cocoon of warm blankets to face the morning chill and the exigencies of the day ahead until the clock, always cruel and inexorable, ticked to the moment of no return: if you don’t get up now, you cannot have a shower. You will be late for work. You will be fired. You will not have money to pay your rent and your still impossible electric bill, not to mention the new tires for your car and luxuries like boots and food.
Gulping boiling hot instant coffee, she looked out the window as she shrugged into her coat. Damn. More snow. She was going to have to dig the car out, scrape the windshield, get it warm. She was low on gas. She was still going to be late for work. Oh, what was the point, anyway? There was no way out of the hole, no way to make enough money to do more than survive. She’d never get to college, never get a better job.
And she would always and forever be alone. Her eyes fell on the giant bottle of Ibuprofen sitting on the shelf. Her insurance policy. She hardly ever took the stuff, the bottle was full. Maybe, just maybe, today was the day. Without further thought, her feet carried her forward, her hand stretched out and took the bottle. She’d played the moment out in her mind so many times. It would take a lot of pills. You could swallow a mouthful at a time, though, wash them down with plenty of water. And from there, from that moment, everything easy, everything out of your hands.
The stinkbug, unresisting, walking straight into the swirling water. Her hands were steady, her heart wasn’t even pounding. This was her destiny. Even the childproof cap responded easily to the slightest pressure of her fingers. She needed water, first, and she set the bottle onto the counter. Even in slow motion she was never sure of exactly what happened; she would always believe she’d set the bottle far back from the edge, that there was nothing under it to unsettle its balance, but as she removed her hand and turned to pick up a glass, the bottle swayed precariously, tipped over the edge of the counter, somersaulted through the air, spewing pills all over the floor and finally rolling to a resting place back underneath the stove.
Christina stood staring. Now her hands were shaking, her heart pounding, the colors of the room, drab thought they were, sharp and bright. And she turned and walked out of the kitchen, out of the house, and into the early morning snow. It stung her nostrils, slightly, a good smell though, of glaciers and forests and magic. All the edges softened, the dirt covered, everything clean and white. She found herself humming a little as she swept the snow off her car, relishing the ache of the cold in her fingers, more alive than she had felt in years.