Antfarm
by Meredith L. Patterson
Originally appeared in Jackhammer
December 25
The biggest box this year was for me. Daddy had more boxes, five little rectangular ones with shiny striped paper, but all they had were ties in them. Mum had a tiny box, with a ring in it that sparkled and looked wet, to match her eyes. But I had the best box of all. I got the antfarm.
It’s the special super deluxe antfarm, too. Three special multi-level clear plastic anthouses with red plastic roofs, and little plugs, just a bit smaller than my fingernail, to put clear bendable hoses with pinprick holes on for the ants to walk from place to place. The hoses come with the antfarm, but I have to order the ants.
Mum put the order form in an envelope and stamped it, and the mailman will come to get it tomorrow. I wrote the address on the envelope myself. Mum says today is a postal holiday.
January 4
Six to eight weeks is a long time to wait.
I got a zipper lock baggie from the pantry and a coffee spoon from the drawer today and brought them into the yard. I took them to the antpile in the corner by the fence, sat down and started to dig. Little red ants came up with the dirt, hanging onto it, the spoon and each other, and I started to put them into the baggie. Just then I heard Mum’s voice from the window: “Wait! Stop! Not with the good silverware!”
Daddy came out and made me put the ants back. He said they’re the wrong kind of ants, that they would bite. I don’t know why they would bite if I gave them such a nice farm. Daddy says some ants are ungrateful.
He put little yellow rocks on the anthills and told me to go inside.
February 11
Ants come in a little paper packet inside a hard plastic box, with an instruction sheet on yellow paper. The first thing it said was, “Fill ant farm with clean fill dirt.” I’m not sure how dirt can be clean, but Mum said potting soil would work. She and I took the antfarm into the garage, opened up the bag of potting soil, and used a trowel to move the dirt from the bag into the antfarm. Mum says if I want to dig in the back yard I can use the trowel.
Next, you open the packet and put it in front of one of those clear hoses that goes into the antfarm, and they walk inside. I lost count of how many there were, but it was more than twenty. Some of them stayed in the hose while the others dug in the dirt, so I blew into the hose a couple of times to push them in. Maybe they don’t understand that they will have plenty of room. They will have to have dozens of tunnels to fit the ants everywhere. I don’t know whether there will be enough to take up all the space.
February 13
Ants like catfood more than lettuce.
Why is it called an antfarm if the ants don’t grow their own food? Maybe it should be called an antsubsidizedcollective.
Daddy used to run a subsidized collective, but they said they didn’t need his help any more, so they started to run things their own way. Daddy said it pissed him off. He said some other things, too, but Mum didn’t wash his mouth. She should’ve. He said that he knew it was going to happen, but he was still pissed.
I borrowed the magnifying glass today to look at the ants. I heard if you look at ants with a magnifying glass in the sunlight, they burn up into ant crispies, so I did it inside. You can almost see their faces with the magnifying glass, if ants even have faces. They move their heads around a lot, like they’re trying to find something.
For a minute I thought about finding out whether they really do turn into ant crispies, but I couldn't think of a good reason to ... and besides, it would be a waste of good ants.
February 15
I woke up this morning and there were whispery noises coming from somewhere. I rubbed my eyes and looked around, but I couldn’t see anyone there, so I tried to listen closer. It sounded like they were saying, Over here. It came from near the antfarm.
I got up and went to the dresser. The voice whispered again: Over here. We would like to talk to you.
I looked into the antfarm. All the ants were standing still. “I can barely hear you,” I told them.
There was a pause, and then, We are all shouting together, came the voice again. We can try to shout more loudly if you want us to. We would like to ask you some questions.
“Like what?” I asked.
Where are we?
“In an antfarm,” I told them.
Another pause.
What is an antfarm?
“It’s where ants live,” I said. “Well, most ants.”
Another pause.
What are ants?
“You are ants.”
We are ants.
“Yes.” The pause this time was much longer.
We will have to think about this for a while. Thank you.
“No problem.”
February 16
We have some more questions, the ants said this morning.
“What’s that?” I asked.
Where does the food come from?
“I bring it to you.”
Another very long pause.
Then we, the ants, thank you for bringing us food.
“You’re welcome.”
Another very long pause.
Where do you get the food?
“From the pantry.”
Another pause, shorter this time.
What is a pantry?
I was about to explain about going down the hall, across the living room and into the kitchen, but I decided it would be better not to confuse them, so I told them, “It’s where food comes from.”
Oh.
“Is there anything else you need?”
Not right now. Thank you.
“Okay. Just ask me if you need anything.”
I didn't know ants were so curious.
February 18
Tonight at dinner, Mum asked about the antfarm and how it was doing. “Great,” I told her. “The ants want to see what the rest of the house looks like.”
Mum smiled and put her fork into another bite of broccoli. “Well, that’s nice, dear,” she said. “Have you told them about it?”
I shook my head. “Not yet,” I said. “They want to see it. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
She smiled one of her aw-isn’t-that-sweet smiles at Dad and popped the broccoli into her mouth. “So, how about it?” I asked. “Can I show them the house?”
Mum finished chewing, swallowed, and looked at Dad. “Well, what do you think?” she asked him.
Dad looked up from reading the paper. “Hmm? Well ... ”
“Can I bring the anfarm down?” I prodded.
He put the paper down and gave Mum a “Why do you ask me these questions?” look. She just smiled at him again and went back to eating.
“Can you do it without getting dirt everywhere?” he asked me.
“You bet. The ants would be mad if I messed up their tunnels.”
He looked up for a second, and then back at me. “Okay ... I guess so. As long as you put them back when you’re finished and you don’t get dirt all over.”
“And finish your dinner first,” added Mum.
“Can I give the ants some broccoli? They need fiber,” I said.
“No, dear, finish yours,” she said, getting up to wash her plate. I didn’t see her finishing her broccoli. But I don’t guess the ants could have eaten much of it anyway.
After I ate the rest of my dinner, I ran upstairs and got the antfarm. I held it with both hands and carried it carefully so that I wouldn’t disturb any of them. I would have had to go to bed except the ants wanted to watch Nightline, so Mum let me stay up.
February 21
Ants are very curious. They ask about all kinds of things. They want to know why it gets bright sometimes and dark sometimes. They want to know if there are different kinds of food. They want to know if ants can go on TV. They want to know if there are other antfarms with ants like them.
They never ask anything about me, though.
March 12
The ants have a problem.
You told us once that there were other ants, they asked. Where are they?
“They live outside, in little hills. They stay outside because they’re ungrateful. They bite.”
We need to have new ants.
“Why?”
We are getting old, and some of us are starting to die.
“So have baby ants.”
We cannot.
“Why?”
It is biologically impossible for us. We do not have a queen ant. If we do not get one, there will be no more ants after we are gone. You brought us here. You give us food and water and light. Please help us.
“But the outside ants bite.”
We will tell them about you, and we will teach them not to bite, if only you will bring us a queen.
I’m not sure what to do.
March 13
Mum and Daddy were away today, and I went outside into the back yard again. This time I brought one of the anthouses with me. Whatever the little yellow rocks were, they didn’t do much. There was still an antpile there, with ants walking into it every once in a while.
“Hello?” I said to the antpile. It didn’t say anything back. “Hello? Is anyone there?” I said again, and bent down to listen. Maybe they were quieter ants.
This time I heard something. It sounded a lot more ragged and whispery than the other ants, like they weren’t really sure what they were saying. Who is this? the voice asked.
“I live inside,” I told them. “I want to make a deal with you.”
What kind of a deal? the whispery voice asked.
“Do you have a queen?” I asked them.
Of course we do. What about it?
“Do you like living outside?”
Where else would we live?
“You could live inside. I have a place for you to live, with food, and it doesn’t rain. But you’d have to bring your queen with you.”
Huh. What’s the catch?
“What do you mean, the catch?”
What else do we have to do?
“Would you promise not to bite if I let you inside?”
There was kind of a pause, and then: Sure, kid. We won’t bite. Then sort of a whispery rushing sound.
“If you promise,” I said, and put the anthouse down on the ground with one of the tubes resting on top of the antpile. Little red ants started scrambling out of the antpile and into the tube, climbing over each other trying to be the first one in. “Which one of you is the queen?” I asked.
The dirt on top of the antpile started to shake, and two much bigger ant legs broke through the surface of the pile. The legs started pushing against the ground, and slowly a huge red ant, about the size of my thumbnail, shook itself out of the dirt. It lumbered over to the tube and pulled itself inside, then squeezed along into the anthouse with the rest of the ants. That’s all of us, the ragged whisper said again, and there was another quiet rushing sound. I picked up the anthouse and took it back inside.
I don’t think ants can laugh.
March 15
There are a lot more red ants than there are black ants. I didn’t think there were so few black ants before, but maybe I was wrong.
March 18
The black ants are a lot quieter now. I don’t think there are quite so many as there used to be. They talked to me again today. It’s not working, they said.
“What isn’t?” I asked them.
The queen is wrong. She cannot do anything for us.
“What do you mean?”
We needed a black ant queen, and you brought us a red one. The red ones are everywhere now, and we cannot make them leave.
“Where was I supposed to find a black one? You didn’t say I needed a black one!”
We do not know. We thought you were supposed to provide for us.
“I do provide! I bring you food and new dirt all the time. I do whatever I can ... ”
We are still going to die.
March 21
I tried counting today to see whether there really was a difference. I think I counted four red ants for every black ant I saw, but they were all moving very fast, and I might have counted some of the black ants twice. Or some of the red ones. I don’t know. And when I tried to talk to them, the voices were hard to hear ... like two different people, both whispering very loud at the same time.
I think I saw a few black ants on the kitchen counter this evening after dinner, but I’m not totally sure.
March 22
I woke up in the middle of the night from a weird dream. There were people in it with ropes and big sticky spongey looking things on their hands and feet, and they were climbing on a glass building like the ones downtown that look green from far away but like mirrors when you get up close. I was in the sky and I was watching them, and when they noticed that I was looking they waved. They all opened their mouths and called out “Goodbye! We’ll be sure to write!” I tried to reach down into the spaces between the skyscrapers to keep them from leaving, but my fingers were too big and they didn’t fit.
When I turned the light on there was something on my pillow that looked like someone had spilled some cream of wheat right out of the box. I sniffed the pillow, and it smelled like catfood.
March 25
The red ants are still living in the anthouses. They’re all over the place, just like the black ants said. I was putting the catfood in the feeding tray today, when they started to talk to me. Hey! they said. This place isn’t big enough.
“What do you mean?” I said. “You’ve got tunnels all over the place.”
Look at it. It’s all filled up. There’s no more room for us to dig. We’re gonna need a new place soon.
“Why should I give you one? You weren’t any help.”
A deal’s a deal, kiddo. And now we need more space. You gonna give it to us, or are we gonna–– There was a sharp prick on my hand, and then more all over my fingers. Red ants were crawling all over my hand, biting and biting. I swatted them and slapped them, trying as hard as I could not to yell. I smashed a few of the ones who had crawled out of the anthouses to try to bite some more, and ran out of my room down the hall to the bathroom.
I put the water on hot and washed my hand over and over, until all the ants were off it. They curled up like little springs and rinsed down the drain. If they said anything, I couldn’t hear it over the noise of the water.
“That’s it,” I said, and I went to get the magnifying glass.
April 4
Mum says there’s a letter for me in the mail and I can have it if I finish all my vegetables tonight. It better not be broccoli again.
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