Queen Ant by Lori Hahnel
July's "Saturday Short"
The boys crouched in a circle, poking something with sticks.
“What have you got there, guys?”
“Ants,” said Christopher, brushing his red hair out of his eyes.
I knew Iris to be squeamish about insects, to an almost bizarre degree. Once she’d told me about holing up with Christopher and Alden in their bathroom for almost two hours, until her late husband Peter had come home and killed the large moth in the living room. And yet, here she was peering at ants with our sons.
“That big one with wings is the queen ant.” With her shaggy blonde bob atop her slender neck she always reminded me of a sunflower or a chrysanthemum, not an iris. “She’ll lay eggs soon.”
“Whoa,” said Nathan, blue eyes wide. “Cool!”
“How do you know?” asked Liam.
“Because I know all about ants. Wait here.”
Iris went inside and got a large jar, cheesecloth, an elastic and a trowel. She dug out the top of the hill, being sure to scoop up the queen and some worker ants, and carefully poured it all into the jar. Then she covered the mouth with the cheesecloth and snapped the elastic around it.
“Now we watch. She’ll lay eggs and they’ll hatch in a few weeks.”
Then we went inside for a snack. Iris placed the jar in the window and the boys gathered around it.
“This is great,” said Liam, staring at the jar while gnawing on a carrot stick.
We’d met Iris and her boys a few months earlier at our neighbourhood Parent and Tot program. One day, she and I started talking afterward while our boys chased each other around the community hall field like a pack of crazed squirrels.
“Sorry,” I said, “I’d love to chat, but I have to drop the boys off with my sitter while I visit my dad.”
“He’s in hospital?”
“Hospice.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah. End-stage Alzheimer’s.”
“That’s a hard journey. I saw quite a few Alzheimer’s patients in my practice.”
“I didn’t know you were a doctor.”
“Yes, a neurologist. Once the boys are back in school, I’ll probably go back part time.”
“I guess you don’t have much choice, being widowed.”
“Exactly. Actually, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention Peter around the boys. They’re still so easily upset about it.”
“Of course.”
“We should set up a playdate sometime. They seem to get on so well.”
Over the next few weeks, I really appreciated the friendship that had sprung up between Iris and me, and the kids. During Dad’s last days, she was always willing to listen, and had great advice. It was great to be able to talk to someone who understood what I was facing. Then after Dad died, when I was dealing with the lawyers, the funeral, the estate, all the official documents with the government and banks, I was incredibly grateful that she could take Nathan and Liam at a moment’s notice.
“When are we going to Christopher and Alden’s?” Nathan asked for the thirty-seventh time one morning.
“I’ll call their Mom after breakfast.”
“Ants, ants, ants,” chanted Liam, banging his spoon on the table, his blond hair still tousled from sleep.
As soon as we arrived at Iris’ house, Nathan and Liam ran into the kitchen, and we instantly heard cries:
“Gross!”
“Ew! Mom!”
“What’s she doing?”
The nest was partly visible near the bottom of the jar. Inside, the queen ant held her wings down with her back feet and pulled them off with her front feet.
Iris smiled. “She’s shedding her wings. She’ll eat them for extra nutrition when she’s ready to start laying her eggs.”
“Ugh! I’m going to puke!” cried Liam.
“Please don’t,” I said. “Why don’t you guys head outside?”
“Okay,” said Alden, a grin spreading across his freckled face. “But we’re taking the ants with so we can keep an eye on them.”
And they tore out into the backyard with the jar.
“You do know a lot about ants,” I said, as we poured coffee. “Have you done research on them?”
“No. They are interesting creatures, though. What about you? What do you do for work?”
“I teach music. When the kids are both in school, I’ll take on students again.”
“What instruments do you teach?”
“Piano. And I’ve taught cello, too. I played cello in a chamber ensemble in university, and carried on with it for a few years after graduation.”
“I love chamber music!”
“Really?”
“And I used to play cello, too.”
“What? That’s amazing! You don’t play anymore?”
“No. It was too hard to keep up with it in medical school.”
“I bet. But that’s cool we both played cello.”
Later I thought about how lucky I was to find a friend who was clearly an interesting person, also with two sons. And who loved chamber music! Unbelievable.
Eggs were visible in the nest the next time we visited.
“They look like Rice Krispies,” said Nathan, examining the jar from different angles.
“Ant eggs for breakfast!” said Christopher.
“Ugh!” screamed Liam.
When we walked in, I noticed the music playing in the kitchen; percussion-heavy dance music with auto-tuned vocals. Not what I would have expected from someone who loves chamber music. It grated on my nerves.
“What’s the music?”
“Oh, it’s Britney Spears. Isn’t she great?”
“I’m not really a fan of auto-tuned vocals.”
“What vocals?”
“Auto-tune is something they use during production to correct the pitch of the vocals.”
She snapped the radio off. “I didn’t know that. Let’s go out in the yard with the guys.”
Oh no. I hoped I hadn’t hurt her feelings. Why did I always have to be such a music snob?
Soon, the ants became larvae. The boys squealed at the squirming white creatures in the jar, then tore outside.
“Iris, I want to apologize for last week.” She gave me a blank look, and I continued. “I can be a real snob about music. And clearly a lot of people like Britney, so I’m in the minority.”
“Don’t worry about it. I actually don’t even like her. But speaking of music, I wanted to ask you something. I’ll be right back.”
She went down the hall and returned with a dusty, battered cello case.
“What’s this?”
“I bought a cello on Kijiji. Could you take a look at it?”
I lifted the three-quarter size Yamaha from the case. It had seen heavy use, probably belonged to a school band before. The fingerboard was worn, and the finish was cracked and crazed.
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, setting it up between my knees.
“It sounds off.”
“Okay. Could you pass me the bow?”
She hesitated before saying, “Oh, the bow,” and got it out of the case.
I played the first few bars of Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major, and stopped.
“It’s way out of tune. The strings will need to be replaced before long, too.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize I would have to tune it. Do I call a tuner? And could they install new strings?”
What the hell? She said she played cello. “No. The strings are okay for now, and I’ll show how to change them later. Right now, I’ll tune it for you. Do you want me to show you how?”
“Sure.”
Step by step, I showed her how to find the tones on the strings, and how to tighten or loosen the strings with the pegs. Finally, I got it back in decent tune.
“Thanks, Leah. Sorry, I guess it’s been a while.”
“No problem. I usually tune to my piano, but it should be okay. Next time it needs tuning, bring it over and tune to my piano. Or get a digital tuner at a music store. Here, give it a try.”
“Oh, not right now. Thanks so much, though.” She laid the cello and bow back in the case. “We should probably go see what the guys are doing.”
“You’re right.”
I followed her into the backyard, where the guys were playing catch. What had that been all about? Why did she tell me she’d played cello, when she obviously never had? She didn’t realize it would need to be tuned? So strange.
Scott dragged me along one night to a fundraising dinner at the Golf & Country Club. I normally don’t mind these events if they include a useful activity, like a benefit concert. But this was just a dinner where we had to talk to Scott’s colleagues from the investment services firm and their clients.
“Oh God, really? Do I have to go?”
“C’mon, Leah. It’s a night out. I’ll get my mom to take the kids. You were just saying how tired you are of being at home all the time.”
“A night with McKinley Barker and clients wasn’t the antidote I had in mind.”
But I went. The wine and food were okay, the conversation was dreary. Until Scott introduced me to a well-dressed couple after dinner. The man wore a deep blue suit, obviously custom tailored, and the woman twirled her long dark blonde hair around a finger.
“This is my wife, Leah. Leah, this is Dr. Peter Skinner and his wife, Ashley.”
“Pleased to meet you both,” I said, and shook their hands. Peter Skinner? I knew Christopher and Alden’s last name was Skinner, but this couldn’t be the same family. Maybe an uncle or cousin?
“I don’t suppose you’re related to Christopher and Alden Skinner?”
“They’re my sons.”
I took a deep breath. What was going on here? Was this the Peter Skinner who was supposed to be dead?
“How do you know them?” he continued.
“My boys are in the same Parent and Tot program.”
“Oh, then you must know Iris, my ex.”
“I – well, yes, I do…”
Dr. Skinner laughed. “You don’t sound sure.”
“Sorry, it’s just that I’m a little confused. Iris introduced herself, she said she’d been recently widowed.”
“Iris has a tendency to make it up as she goes along. You can’t believe anything she says.”
He laughed again, and his wife smiled and shook her head. “Honestly, I think she would have preferred that. But no, we divorced a couple of years ago.”
“I see. I’m sorry to embarrass you.”
“No, not at all. Iris has a tendency to make it up as she goes along. You can’t believe anything she says.”
This was a lot to take in. And it felt really awkward. “I’d think that would be a real disadvantage in her career as a neurologist.”
“A neurologist? Oh, no!” Now Dr. Skinner howled with laughter. “No,” he continued when he regained his composure, wiping tears from his face. “Iris was a receptionist in a neurologist’s office.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Yes, she has quite an imagination.”
“You misunderstood. I said he was dead to me,” said Iris, red-faced. It was a rainy day, so the boys played downstairs while Iris and I had coffee in the kitchen.
“Iris. When we did our intros in the parent group, you said you’d been recently widowed.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I heard what you said.”
“You misunderstood, then. As a neurologist, I see this kind -- ”
“Stop right there. Okay? Peter told us that you were a receptionist at a neurologist’s office.”
She stared at me, hard. “He’s lying. Professional jealousy. He can hardly bring himself to admit that I made more than he did.”
I took a deep breath, put my coffee cup down. “I’m going to go check on the boys.”
They were fine, playing Bionicles with Arthur on in the background.
What the hell was wrong with her? Then I remembered Peter saying she made it up as she went along. I realized there was no point in arguing, and rejoined her upstairs.
We went over to Iris’ a week before Christopher and Nathan started kindergarten. Alden and Liam were both starting their second year of preschool, and we were all done with the Parent and Tot program. It seemed very likely that Iris and I would see less of each other going forward.
The ants were now in the pupal stage. We stood in the kitchen and Iris held the jar for the boys to look at.
“Remember how the larvae shed their skins a while ago, and became pupae? They looked more like real ants then, didn’t they? And now they look almost like adults.”
Each of the boys had a turn looking at the jar, ants clambering up the sides.
“Thanks, Alden. I’ll take that now.” She headed down the hall with the jar.
Alden raced after her. “Mom, what are you doing? Mom? Don’t flush them down the toilet!”
“They’re only bugs. And we have enough ants in this yard.”
Alden wrested the jar from his mother’s hands, then flew down the hall with it tucked under his arm like a football, and the other boys followed him out the back door. I watched through the window as they dumped the contents back into the garden, yelling, “Be free! Be free!”
Iris joined me at the window, watched silently with her back turned to me.
“I think we need some more coffee,” she remarked after a moment.
About the Author
Lori Hahnel is the author of three novels and two short story collections. Flicker (University of Calgary Press, 2023) was a finalist at the Alberta Publishing Awards. Vermin: Stories (Enfield & Wizenty, 2020) shortlisted for several awards and won the 2022 Alberta Literary Award for Short Story Collection. Her work has been broadcast on CBC Radio and CKUA Radio, and published in The Fiddlehead, Joyland, The Saturday Evening Post and many other journals and anthologies. She is at work on a novel about pianist and composer Clara Schumann.