WE GOT SCORPIONS

My wife and son appear through my crusty, sleep-booger-blurred vision, standing in the bedroom doorway, leaning together, grinning, and say, “We got scorpions!”

I leap out of bed, blow between them, and take off down the hall. My feet slip on this one perpetually slick spot of hardwood, but I manage to stay vertical, slide through the living room, yank open the front door, and scramble off the porch; I’m high-tailing it down the sidewalk for parts unknown, knees pumping and arms rigid L’s, hands chopping, Terminator 2 running. At the corner of Spring and Willow, one block from the house, my ankle monitor goes off—the new kind that blasts a siren sound—and I putter to a stop.

I walk back, breeze on my thighs, watching for pebbles on the sidewalk: I’m in my boxer shorts and an over-sized Black Flag t-shirt. I find Katie and Aiden in our yard, once more leaning together. They’re almost the same height now—tall—though Aiden’s in sixth grade.

I stop at our fence. “We got scorpions?”

“We bought scorpions, babe,” Katie says.

“They’re inside a tank. In the car.” Aiden says.

“Oh. Keep them there,” I say, and let myself in the gate.

Aiden follows me to the porch. “They’re emperor scorpions. They’re not poisonous.”

I open the door for us. “Does it still hurt when they sting you?’

“Dad, they’re not going to.” He stays on the porch, arms folded. Katie follows me; she and I stand in the doorway. I whisper to her, “The police might be coming.”

She winces. “Aiden, come on.”

He frowns. “It’s hot in the car.”

Katie puts a hand on my shoulder, with the other ruffles Aiden’s hair. “Go grab their tank, dude.”

I collapse on the couch. Katie looms over me. “You were there.”

“I should call my parole officer.”

“When he asked to get them.”

I have zero memory of this conversation, feel certain it was between them, and start to say so. Aiden trots in with a clear plastic tank, green lid and handle, bottom filled with sand and two enormous black scorpions.

I scooch to the far end of the couch.

“Mom said we’ll get a real terrarium,” he says, comes to show me the things, plops down beside me with the tank in his lap. Two shiny scorpions—motionless, blasé. I’m holding my breath, digging nails into palms as he explains feeding them. Katie has gone to the window, announces a police car is here.

“Oh!” says Aiden, who leaps up and leaves the tank near my leg. I freeze.

Before bugs, Aiden had a fireman/policeman/EMT phase: could identify different types of sirens and spew facts about traffic protocols and response times.

A scorpion begins walking, rippling all of those legs. I bail over the couch’s arm and retrieve jeans from the laundry. Aiden and Katie are ready for the officer at the door. He gives them a faint nod, says to me, “Sir, we got a call you left the court-designated—”

“My bad,” I say, zipping and buttoning, “My son brought home scorpions.”

His hand moves to his gun. “Scorpions, sir?”

“They’re emperor scorpions,” Aiden says, “they aren’t poisonous.”

Katie explains they’re in a tank. His hand leaves his gun.

“Go check if they need water,” Katie says to Aiden, who looks confused, takes the hint, scoops the tank off the couch, and trudges to his room, chin to chest.

“His thing’s bugs right now,” Katie whispers to the lantern-jawed officer.

“Arachnids,” Aiden yells from his room.

The officer nods.“Sir, you need to stay in your home. Or yard.”

“My husband was smoking a joint,” Katie says. “In our backyard. With his brother. And all this.” She makes a swirling gesture to the officer, his car, and my ankle monitor. “Our asshole neighbor called the police and said he’s ‘dealing drugs.’ She’s two hundred years old. And is an asshole.”

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, I don’t have any—”

Aiden marches from his room, holding the tank aloft, like: behold.

The officer swallows, says, “Those are big.”

Aiden jams the tank in his face. “They’re seven inches long. They’re indigenous to West Africa. They hunt lizards.”

The officer stands firm, nodding and smiling. As is Katie. I’m backing away.

The officer says, “My daughter talked us into a kitten. We’re all allergic, but we love the dang thing.” He studies the scorpions. “They eat lizards?”

Katie’s beaming at them, just glowing.

“They’re friendly,” Aiden says. “This one’s female. They can mate.”

“Scorpion family,” the officer says.

Aiden’s, like, dancing now. “You can hold them; they’ll walk around on—”

“No!” I say. Everyone startles. Aiden nearly fumbles the tank.

Last year, Aiden got so mad I wouldn’t take a game of LEGO cops and robbers seriously—police don’t interrogate with lightsabers; bank robbers don’t ride escape velociraptors—that he wouldn’t come out of his room for dinner.

“I want to,” I add. Katie stares. The officer’s stone-faced.

On phantom legs, I float, hand outstretched, and in someone else’s booming voice, say, “Alright—show me how to hold one.”