Leann Sweeney - Pick Your Poison

“Common sense was never her strong suit,” said Aunt Caroline from the arched doorway. She’d gone from underdressed the other day to looking as if she were ready for dinner at La Reserve in her black crepe pantsuit.

“What’s this? Gang-up-on-Abby night?” I could tolerate Willis chastising me. He meant well. But Aunt Caroline had as much right to talk about common sense as about the benefits of monogamy.

“Let’s have a drink before dinner and forget this for now,” said Kate.

“Sounds great to me,” I said, anxious to get away from the check search for today.

We retreated to the family room, where Aunt Caroline sipped white wine and prattled on about how well she would protect the paintings and sculptures we’d entrusted to her. Then she pumped Willis for information on the insured value of every piece of art she’d confiscated, making sure to point out that she planned to will everything back to us. That was when I had a chance to extract a small measure of revenge.

“Good. We wouldn’t want anyone else to get his ‘Hans’ on our things when you die, Aunt Caroline,” I said.

Her eyes sparked with anger, and I had to turn away to hide my grin.

Whenever Diva disappeared, which wasn’t all that often, I usually had trouble sleeping. By one A.M. I was still awake, my eyes focused on the interlocking circles in the plaster ceiling of my bedroom.

Where did cats go when that urge to wander hit them? Did they have prearranged meetings with each other in the night? Hold little cat conventions to reaffirm their independent spirits? I closed my eyes with a renewed effort to find sleep, and that was when I heard her faint but distinctive meow. I sat up and strained to hear more, then realized where the sound was coming from.

How in the world did she get into the attic? It was only accessible through the back of a closet.

I left my bed and crept down the hall, not wanting to wake up Kate. She had to be at school early tomorrow.

When we were kids, she and I had plotted our escape from the world into our “secret room” in the very attic Diva now inhabited. But once we’d dragged a few prized possessions up there, prepared to disappear from the face of the earth, we immediately realized that anyone who spent more than a few minutes in those stifling confines would shrivel up and die from the heat. Poor Diva was probably melting.

I went into the guest bedroom, pushed aside the clothes in the closet, and opened the door. A rush of hot, humid air threatened to suck me in.

“Diva!” I whispered into the darkness. I reached over my head, trying to locate the ceramic pull for the light. “Here, kitty-kitty.” I found the chain, but after several tugs I realized the attic bulb was burned out. Meanwhile, I could hear plaintive cries in the blackness beyond.

The bedroom light would have to suffice, but though I waited awhile for my eyes to adjust, I still couldn’t see her. I needed a flashlight, and on my way down the hall to find one, I asked myself why all important cat business had to be conducted in the dead of night.

Wiping my sweaty hands on my boxers, I tiptoed toward the stairs, certain I’d seen a flashlight in the kitchen drawer not too long ago. But about halfway down the front stairway, I stopped abruptly.

I’d heard something. A squeaking sound. Did it come from outside? I couldn’t tell, so I called out Kate’s name, thinking maybe I’d woken her. No response. And no more noises.

I grasped the banister, slowly followed the railing down to the foyer, and flipped on the lights. I walked down the hall to the kitchen and started clawing through the catchall drawer. No flashlight there, so I stooped and looked in the cabinet beneath the drawer, mumbling, “If and when I move, half this stuff is getting thrown in—”

I heard another noise. Behind me.

I spun in time to see the back doorknob slowly turning.

My heart thudded against my chest, and I was about to grab the phone or scream for Kate when Steven opened the door. My whole body went limp with relief. “Steven Bradley! You gave me a mouthful of my own heart!”

“Sorry,” he said. “Thought I could sneak in and out without waking you.”

“I know I locked that door. And the alarm was on.”

“No alarm, babe. You musta forgot, as usual.” He then held a key with a sheepish grin. “Found this a month or two after the divorce. Couldn’t sleep, thanks to all the Dr Pepper I drank, so I thought I could sneak in and pick up the blueprints for the Victorian. I saw them in Charlie’s study one time.”

“Give me that key. Seems it’s slipped your mind that you don’t live here anymore.”

He walked over and placed it in my outstretched palm.

“You smell like a wet hog, by the way.” I waved my hand in front of my face.

“Huh?” He was focused on my T-shirt, which read, Let’s put the fun back in dysfunctional —a phrase that I realized might well have been Steven’s motto.

“You stink, Steven. Have you taken to living in a ditch these days?”

“Sorry, the truck needs Freon and it’s about ninety degrees outside.”

“Do you happen to have a flashlight, by the way? Diva is stuck in the attic.”

“How’d she get in there?”

“How would I know? Have you got one?” I said impatiently.

“Got what?” He had renewed his interest in my chest, and not because he was a slow reader.

I crossed my arms and whispered hoarsely, “A flashlight!”

“Sorry. Yeah. In the truck.”

He left.

I grabbed a quick drink of water and was just about to get those blueprints when I heard voices outside. Now what?

I walked to the door, the sound of raised male voices carrying from the back driveway. Though not exactly dressed to meet the neighbors, I went outside, and the night immediately enveloped me in its sticky August embrace.

I jogged in the direction of what was now a considerable commotion, considering the possibility that all the residents in this particular zip code might be congregated in my yard. But I stopped dead when the glow from the small lights that marked the drive revealed only two men—Steven and someone else—locked in a struggle.

The assailant’s back was to me, and, figuring I had the advantage, I ran up behind him. Maybe I could stick my fingers in his eyes or pull his hair, but instead my hands slid down his sweaty cheeks. The guy’s elbows flew out, and one strong arm tossed me off his back like popcorn.

I landed hard on my tailbone, legs flailing. Steven, meanwhile, had freed himself, and his fist was drawn back.

“Don’t hit him!” I hollered, realizing who the assailant was. “He’s a cop.”

For once Steven listened.

“You know this bozo?” said Kline between gasps, brushing his clothes, then dabbing the cut near his eye. Blood wound in a thin trail down his cheek.

“Yes, I know him.” I stood. “Sorry for scratching you, but I am immunized against most diseases.”

As usual, Sergeant Kline was in no mood for jokes.

Nor was Steven, who took a menacing step forward. “I’m no bozo.”

Even in the dim light, I could tell the tips of Steven’s ears were scarlet, and that meant trouble. Several guys at the Frontier Club, where we used to party before I became acquainted with the term codependent , knew what sort of trouble.

“Why don’t we go inside before we wake the neighborhood?” I said. “Besides, I’m half-naked.”

Those words got their attention. Despite preoccupation with fistfights or territorial disputes, most men remain on full alert for a less-than-adequately-clothed female.

As I started walking toward the house, I said, “I don’t recall inviting either of you for this two-man square dance.”