Mean Woman Blues

CHAPTER ONE
    May is the cruelest month.
    September has its moments, being hurricane season, but its meanness is unreliable. May is a sure thing.
    On Mother’s Day, give or take a week or so, the Formosans swarm, only slightly less consistent than the swallows at Capistrano. They continue their inexorable flight, sometimes in terrifying indoor clouds, well into summer.
    Formosan termites, accidentally imported some years ago, are eating the city of New Orleans. They are doing it not in bug-sized nibbles, but in greedy gulps that some people say they can actually hear. They swear that in the dark of night, as they lie awake kissing their investments good-bye, they can hear the buzz of so many tiny saws, mandibles chomping their floorboards.
    Perhaps they are merely blessed with good imaginations, but a visitor who arrives in the merry month, strolls a few blocks, and finds himself wearing a vest of termites may be inclined to credit them.
    The unsuspecting stay-at-home finds himself in a fifties sci-fi film. It begins with a single bug. It may fall on his clothing or perhaps the desk upon which he’s writing. He brushes it off, and another falls, like an earwig from the eaves of a porch. He looks up and sees a few winged creatures bouncing off the chandelier. Odd, he thinks, and goes back to his reverie. And soon there are more bugs. And more. And more. The room may fill with them, thick shrouds of them, circling, diving, turning the air into a seething dark mass.
    It may seem the sensible thing to run screaming for cover, but in fact there is an easier way: Our hero can simply turn off the light, and they will leave or die. Or he can just wait, if he can stand it. The winged ones, the alates, or breeders, have about a two-hour life span, between seven and nine KM, usually. Unless, of course, they manage to mate, in which case they will start a nest. The largest nest found to date had a diameter of three hundred feet.
    Unlike other termites, these can build aerial nests, right in your walls. Brick or stucco houses are fine with them; they’ll eat the door frames, windowsills, picture frames, furniture, and telephone bills, plus your favorite hundred-year-old shade tree.
    Louisiana has the most severe infestation in the world, and it is only natural that the bug has become, like the
loup-garou
(or Cajun werewolf), part of the local mythology.
    The stories are legend: An alfresco wedding attacked by something resembling a Biblical plague. A window shut just in time, as hundreds of tiny bodies, drawn by the light inside, smash as if on a windshield. An ordinary backyard, covered in minutes by a carpet of termites. Fat garbage bags of wings, as many as ten or twelve, shoveled from the floor of a house.
    Indeed, the month of May affords a brush with nature rarely seen by urban dwellers. Those of a metaphorical bent try not to think about the Mother’s Day aspect.
    * * *
    Detective Skip Langdon, a veteran of many Mays in New Orleans, was trying to help her beloved through his first, mostly with diversionary tactics. She had seen Steve Steinman’s face when he discovered the termite launching pads on his newly purchased, newly painted, hundred-and-twenty-year-old ceiling. He looked as if someone had died.
    “Am I insured for this?” he said, and she desperately wished there were something she could do. The insurance companies weren’t that dumb.
    “Why didn’t they find them when they inspected?” he asked, outraged.
    “You can’t know they’re there unless you rip out the walls.”
    “Uh-oh. I’ve got a bad feeling that means I’ve got to do that now.”
    “Maybe you won’t. They can probably drill holes for the poison.” But she was lying. They might well have to rip out the walls.
    No exterminator would be available for weeks, of course, and it’s said the Formosans can go through a floorboard in a month. The thing to do was keep his mind off it.
    JazzFest was over, and the heaviness of summer was nearly upon them; Mother’s Day brunch at a fine old restaurant sounded like a prison sentence. Yet Skip was a mother of sorts, or at least an aunt to the adopted children of her landlord, Jimmy Dee Scoggin. Dee-Dee was gay, and his partner, Layne Bilderback, had recently joined the household shared by Jimmy Dee and young Kenny and Sheila Ritter, the offspring of his late sister.
    Dee-Dee wheedled. “We have to do something to remember their mother, keep the feminine spirit alive. Isn’t it the decent