“When Edie took the wash off the clothesline in the fall, she had to shake each garment in the wind, to be sure that no spiders remained in the folds. She shook each twice, three times, four. They were little, the shy white spiders with spectral faces; a soft flurry of tiny legs as they scurried down sleeves and under collars. She imagined that her voice, when she spoke to her children, was just as soft. She took care to always speak to them kindly, always measured the tone of her words so that she would not slip up and scrape against their doll-baby skin with her anger. So she would not bruise or draw blood. Yes, her voice was like the white spiders hidden in their clothes…”

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