Don't Answer Me

         "Don't answer me," my husband, Derek, mouths silently. He's across an empty hotel ballroom from me. I'm confused. I make a face to reply, "What?"
         His eyes widen and he minutely shakes his head. I hold up my hand to my face with my pinky finger and thumb extended. I mouth, "Do you want me to call the police?"
         He shakes his head slowly.
         
         His eyes trail away from me to something behind a foldable room divider to his left. We are alone in the main ballroom of the St. Regis Hotel. I am the executive director of an LGBT+ non-profit that raises awareness about various issues faced by the community, especially youth and the elderly. Tonight, is our huge, annual gala fundraiser. We've been advertising for months shaking every shrubbery we could find to raise as much money as we can. Anybody who wanted to shoot at a room full of queer people and their allies would know precisely where to be today.
         Whoever is behind the screen has a clear view of Derek, so they must know he's communicating with someone, even if only silently.
         I've known Derek for over 20 years, and he's the most fearless person I have ever met. He started out with the city police, then was a detective with state law enforcement and now he's polling well ahead of his opponents in the upcoming election to become the county sheriff. I have seen him take down an active shooter with an improvised trip wire he created by stringing a laptop power cord between two cubicles. That's how we met, in fact. I was an office worker he rescued from near certain death.
         Now, whatever was behind that room divider had him absolutely terrified. I could barely breathe. A dozen other people were due to arrive any second to help set up.
         What if Derek was the target? He'd been an officer of the law his entire adult life. He'd taken down countless criminals of all sorts. What if one was out for revenge? What if this was a hate crime in progress? What if the person killed Derek and me and then hid our bodies and continued so that as more people arrived, they had no idea they were walking into a deadly trap until they too were stacked up behind that divider like cordwood? The very fingers of Stephen King himself would tremble trying to describe the scenarios running through my mind as I saw the bravest man I know filled to the brim with wide-eyed horror.
         I wonder what sort of society creates a person whose first instinct when something unnerving happens, is, "I'm about to be murdered."
         My own heart is thundering in my chest when I hear the ballroom door behind me open. It is Louisa and her wife, Charlotte. Louisa has a large, electric bass guitar slung over her shoulder and Charlotte is pushing a dolly with a Marshall amplifier the size of a small car on it. They immediately sense the energy in the room and stop their good-natured bantering. They both stand as still as statues.
         Louisa whispers to me, "What's wrong?"
         I turn my head just enough to whisper back, "I think there is someone behind that screen. Derek said not to call the police."
         Louisa's eyebrows shot up.
         "What do you want us to do?" Louisa whispered back.
         "Do you see that door behind the stage?" I ask.
         "Yes."
         "Can you go around outside the room and peek through to see what is happening? Not wide enough they have a clear shot at you."
         "You got it, boss," she replies. It sounds like something a mobster would say. I can totally see Louisa as the reincarnation of a 1940s gangster.
         She unshoulders the bass guitar and hands it to Charlotte. I hear the quiet click of the door as Louisa closes it behind herself as quietly as humanly possible.
         I see Derek close his eyes and his jaw flexing. I think he's praying. There is no universe in which that's a good sign. A few eternal seconds pass and I see the door behind the stage open just a crack. If I had not been watching for it, I might not have noticed.
         Then I see Louisa's whole torso come through the door. She scans the room with a scowl.
         At full volume, she announces, "There's no one there."
         She shoulders herself the rest of the way through the door and marches across the dais. Her open-front flannel shirt billowing behind her like a superhero cape. She has a green 'reduce, reuse, recycle' t-shirt on underneath. She and her bandmates are going to blow the roof off this place tonight, assuming no one blows her away first.
         She stops at the edge of the screen.
         "What the hell?" She says.
         My mind is saying, "Oh God, oh God, oh wait, does that count as praying?"
         "It's just a damned spider, boss" she replies.
         "What?" I asked.
         "And not even that big of one."
         She gives Derek an annoyed scoff, "You big baby."
         She disappears behind the screen.
         Thump.
         She reappears with one Reebok in her hand. She knocks the arachnid cadaver off in a trash can.
         She turns to Derek, "Ok, mister big, scary policeman, is there anything else we can help you with?"
         With a scratchy, dry, embarrassed throat, Derek replies, "No. Thank you, I'm fine."
         "Well, boss, shall we start setting up?" Louisa asked.
         "Yes."
         I go up to Derek, mystified but flooded with relief, "What was with the 'don't answer me' thing?"
         "I didn't want you to scare it off. I wanted you to kill it."
         How did I not know my husband is arachnophobia?
         I roll my eyes, "We've got a lot of work to do to get ready for tonight."
         The evening ended up being a huge success and we raised more money than we ever thought. Louisa got quite a lot of mileage out of the spider story.