Liminal Scorpions

75 CAROLE FIRSTMAN LIMINAL SCORPIONS I recently found a scorpion on my father’s desk, which I have since stolen. Not a live creature, but a specimen, long pickled in formaldehyde. The handwritten label inside the jar reads: Paruroctonus silvestrii: Las Estacas, Mexico—1971. The scorpion floats in suspended animation, trapped in the jar I now balance on the flat of my palm, its body preserved for display. Appearing neither dead nor alive, it hovers near the bottom, leaving an almost imperceptible gap between its abdomen and the glass that rests on my hand. I discovered it a few days after my father telephoned from Mexico to say he had decided to stay there until he dies. “I’m not long for this world,” he said. “I need you to ship me some things.” I reached for the notepad next to my computer and took down his list, an itemized request that would trigger my weeklong scavenger hunt inside his unoccupied central California home, my discovery of this particular scorpion specimen bottled on the shelf above his desk, and my subsequent thievery. Although my father built a career, a life, around his research on the evolution of arachnids—spiders, mites, and scorpions—he made no mention of his specimen collection the day he rattled his list into the receiver. “The Great Lectures dvd collection and the most recent catalogue from the Teaching Company,” he said. His voice cracked with urgency. “My Encyclopedia Britannica set, including the annual almanacs. Posters of The Blue Boy and Pinkie—the reproductions I got last year at the Huntington Museum, not the photocopies in my bedroom, but the original posters—you’ll have to remove them from the frames.” With the phone clamped between my shoulder and jaw, I repeated the list back to him. He added a few more items, then proceeded to describe in detail where each object lay inside his house. colorado review 76 “I know where it all is,” I said several times. And “Yes, of course I know that, too.” His house stands just five doors down from mine, so I know the layout of his home quite well. But he didn’t stop with the directions no matter how many “I-knows” I uttered, because once he gets going on a train of thought it’s impossible for him to stop. Impossible. After a while I doodled on the notepad, saying “uh-huh” every few seconds. My father had gone to Mexico at my urging. A few months ago my brother and I bought him a one-way ticket with the vague promise of a return flight at his convenience. We hoped that without a specific return date in mind, he might be more inclined to stay longer than three weeks—perhaps forever. This isn’t quite as harsh as it seems. For decades he’d dreamed of moving there permanently, surrounded by the language and landscape he loves, the deserts and beaches and mountains where he’d gathered arachnid specimens for half a century. Best of all, he would be near relatives who could look after him. Relatives other than me. Far away. Among the list of things he requested were his Great Books of the Western World, a hardbound series originally published in 1952, fifty-four volumes covering classic literature, including works of fiction, history, natural science, philosophy, mathematics , and religion. I didn’t tell him that the information contained in these books is readily available on the Internet, or that it would be cheaper to mail-order new books online and have them sent directly to his new apartment in Mexico rather than have me ship the old books. But he doesn’t use computers. Anyway, once he sets his mind to something, he automatically disregards all other options. “On the bookcase next to my bed,” he said, as always, hyperenunciating . “Yes, I know.” “I must have them with me. They are monumental works by and about great authors. The most influential thinkers of our time.” I know, I know, I fucking know. But I did not say this either, because I’ve long understood that once he gets started he cannot stop. Cannot. “Be sure...