Poetry viewed the policeman through the blur of grief. “I need help,” she said, surprised how calm she sounded, despite the whirlwind of emotions flooding her heart. “He hurt my cat. I need to get him to a vet.”
“Yes, but we need to ask you some questions,” he said. “We’ll see to your cat, but-“ “I’m not doing anything until I take care of my fucking cat.” Another shadow joined the first.
“I’ll take him, Poetry,” Adrian said. “These guys know me. I can take care of Amir and catch up later.” Through the glaze of rage and pain she saw him reaching out. Compassion softened his eyes. “I promise I’ll take good care of him.”
“Roommate says a guy named Kevin Ferris did this. You know him, Olsen?” the cop asked.
“Not really,” Adrian said. “I had a little run in with him today. Didn’t come to anything, but I’ll come by and make a statement later.” “Works for me,” said the cop. “Miss Manousakis? Give him the cat, alright? Adrian’s a good guy. He’ll take care of it.”
Poetry loathed the idea. She had to go with him. Amir was her cat. She’d failed to protect him and she had to make it better. “We have your ex in custody on an unrelated charge.” The police man grasped Poetry’s elbow, tried to guide her up. “We need to take you downtown for some paperwork.”
She resisted. Adrian still held his hands out for her kitten. “Mew.”
The pathetic sound snapped Poetry’s heart in half. Amir needed help. Now. She had no choice. She had to what was best for him. Poetry relinquished him to Adrian, stroking the soft fur on Amir’s head with one finger.
“Take good care of my baby.” Adrian nodded. “I promise I will.” He disappeared, leaving Poetry to absorb her misery.
CHAPTER TEN Poetry couldn’t remember a longer night. She ran her hands down tear-dampened cheeks as she stomached the silence inside Gary’s BMW. Poetry would have loved to hunker into the buttery cushions, inhale the faint new car-plastic-and-leather scent as streetlamps drifted by tinted windows. Having been in a luxury vehicle only twice in one day, she finally understood the attraction.
But the freakish events of the evening had taken its toll and she couldn’t loosen up. “I told you he was a loser,” Jenny commented from the front seat. She’d been using that word to describe Kevin every day for weeks. Months.
“I know. I’m sorry.” How many times did she need to apologize? After tonight Jenny would never let it go. Jenny held her hand at the police station, even though Poetry sensed her hurt, worry, and fear. They clung together for support when asked to identify the man who they believed ransacked their apartment.
Kevin had been bellowing nonsense behind the mirror, saying the war god told him to ‘lay waste’ to his enemies. Poetry almost didn’t recognize the dirty, sweaty gargoyle tipping chairs in the dingy interrogation room. It took four cops to subdue him.
It wasn’t until they questioned Poetry about his drug use and criminal record that Jenny’s attitude changed. “We arrested him walking down the middle of the Jasper Avenue, higher than a kite, disrupting traffic. We found used syringes on his person as well as heroin,” the officer said. “You had no idea he was using?”
“I didn’t,” Poetry said. “I guess it explains a lot.” “Then you are unaware he’s got a record for possession and a few B&E’s.” She‘d wanted to vomit. She still tasted the burn at the back of her throat. Who was this guy? Who’d she been dating for four months? How could she be so stupid? And used needles. Thank God for safe sex. At least she’d been smart enough to use condoms. Her dread grew worse when she noticed Jenny’s withdrawal. A barrier of seething fury came between them and had remained since. Poetry had no idea how to make amends.
“You’re sorry?” Jenny spun around and Poetry flinched at the frenzied gleam in her eyes. “You brought a drug addicted criminal into our lives, Poetry. He wrecked everything.”
Poetry winced. She deserved Jenny’s rage. And she braced for more. “I had some of those stuffed animals since I was a kid. Those dishes were the first matching set I’d ever owned. I got them for Christmas.” Jenny took a deep breath. “You suck, Poetry.”
“That’s enough, Jen,” Gary said, using one hand to rub her friend’s shoulder. “It’s been a rough night.”
Jenny faced the windshield and ignored Poetry as though she hadn’t erupted. Poetry wished the car didn’t have such a quiet engine. She needed something to kill the tension. As much as she wanted to hear the radio, a CD, anything, she figured no one was in the mood for music. And she didn’t dare speak. Her voice could crack, and she might start crying again.
“Do I turn left here, Poetry?” Gary asked. She peered out the window at the teal blue peaks of the Jasper Gates strip mall. “Yeah.” She tried not to sound weepy. “Left here and right on ninety-seventh.”
Within moments Poetry recognized the dirty-snow colored stucco and green trim of her parents’ house. “This is it.” As she expected, theirs was the only one ablaze with light on this sleepy avenue. Not a lot happened on Sunday night in this neighborhood. At least she would be safe.
Gary pulled up to the curb and Poetry clutched her purse. “Thanks for the ride.”
She caught a tentative smile lifting his lips through the shadows. “You’re welcome.”
Poetry gathered her courage. “Jenny? Mom said you’re more than welcome to take the guest room.”
Jenny stiffened. “Tell your mom thanks, but no. I’m staying with Gary tonight.”
“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow?” Jenny said nothing, so Poetry shut the door and tread lightly over the sidewalk to her childhood home. Geez, Jenny was pissed. In two and a half years Poetry had never seen her so mad. But it’s not as though I did it on purpose, she thought, trying to come to terms with the damage done to their friendship. It scared me too. She didn’t think Jenny cared right now. She had to admit, she blamed herself as well.
Before she reached the front step she heard the click of the lock as the deadbolt disengaged. Her mother’s thin silhouette blocked the glare of the indoor fixtures, and Poetry experienced a wave of reassurance that transformed her into a little girl again.
“Mama.” The screen door creaked open, and Poetry rushed up the concrete stairs into welcoming arms. Behind her the BMW hummed away.
“Sweetie, I’m so sorry,” her mother said, stroking her hair and hugging her until she squeezed Poetry’s sobs free. “Are you alruh…huhAchoo!”
Poetry pulled away with a start. Any comfort she’d cherished evaporated with the reminder of her mother’s allergies. Poetry gave her clothes a once-over. She must be covered in fur and dander.
“Bless you,” she said. Her mother snuffled. “Sorry. Come inside. I made us some tea.” Poetry followed her mom to the kitchen.
She sat at the wooden table amidst the soothing decor. The blue and white plates and potted ivy crawling up the walls mimicked a Greek restaurant, but she’d always loved it. She decorated her home and body with the same look. Right down to the foliage on her forearms.
“Where’s Dad?” Her mother presented her with a hot beverage. “I let him sleep.”
A hush fell as they sipped. Despite the heat outside, Poetry clasped her hands to the ceramic. The warmth soaked into her palms and the flowery chamomile perfume mollified her.
“Are you going to tell him?” Poetry asked. “Lord knows I should,” her mother said, pinching the bridge of her nose. Poetry knew the gesture well. It demonstrated her mother’s exasperation. “I don’t keep secrets from your father.”
Poetry studied her mother’s pasty complexion. Too many years behind a desk? Or did her concern wash out her face? Most likely allergies.
“Please Mom. Just this once.” Poetry hated upsetting her father. Everything from the downcast expression in his eyes to the heaving sigh as he rubbed his chest produced anxiety and guilt for her.
“Poetry, you can’t build trust in a relationship if you don’t communicate.” Her mother trumpeted her nose through a Kleenex. “If you understo
od that, you might not be in this situation.”
Ouch. “Thanks, Mom. That was really helpful.” Poetry loved her parents, but this was the exact reason she rarely confided in them. She couldn’t say or do anything without being judged. From the day she’d had her eyebrow pierced they acted as if she was incapable of thinking for herself. Granted, tonight didn’t help matters.
At any rate, she didn’t have the energy to fight. With her mother’s stinging words ringing through her head, Poetry abandoned her tea and descended the stairs to her old room in the basement.
“Poetry…” Her mother’s voice was a stage whisper. “We’ll talk in the morning…” Not if I can help it, Poetry thought. Worse than her father’s disappointment was her mother’s subtle scolding. But she couldn’t find somewhere else to sleep this late.
She let herself into her teenage bedroom and allowed memories to flood back with a flick of the light switch. It hadn’t changed since she’d left home. Orgy and Rammstein greeted her without words, their paper faces frozen in a layer of dust. A faded purple comforter on a well-worn mattress invited her to crawl in. She remembered lounging there for hours, listening to headphones and sketching rock stars. Even the scent of hairspray still permeated the walls. She felt so much younger here.
Poetry stripped and slipped beneath the covers. She needed rest, and tonight that meant leaving the lamps on for a small sense of security. Wrapped in the cool sheets, Poetry drifted. She tried not to think about Kevin. Instead she wondered, with an ache in her heart, if Amir would be okay. The skin beneath his fur had been too warm. He’d felt so fragile in her hands and sounded so pitiful when he meowed at her that she…
Poetry bolted upright. All thoughts of slumber vanished. She‘d given her injured baby to a stranger, to take him to God only knows where. She literally didn’t have a clue where her cat was or if he lived. Poetry groaned. Why? Why did she let Adrian have him? How could she have been such a bad mommy? Thoughts of inadequacy and self-reproach filled Poetry until her nerves tightened with tension and remorse. There would be no sleep for her tonight.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Strife swept a hand through her newly blonde hair. She hated it. This tacky shade seemed to be the North American idea of beauty, but Strife couldn’t understand it. What a monotonous color. Dreadfully boring. But she would fit in better with these narrow-minded simpletons if she looked more Caucasian.
It took her a long time to find a bleaching agent. Hair dye was not to be found in this backwater town. She’d had to improvise with her personal stash of chemical wonders.
A smile of satisfaction slid up her face as she recalled sneaking the bag through customs. She’d used all her mental abilities and olfactory influence to get the various liquids and powders through.
But the well-meaning and professional staff were exhausted and easily distracted. If anyone discovered what she’d smuggled across the ocean and most of Canada there’d have been widespread panic-- terrorism warning levels would reach new heights.
“You’re new here.” Strife batted her eyes at the weathered face of a local who’d approached the rickety stools. “I sure am.” She sidled closer and spread her palms over the sticky bar. “It’s my first day.”
“Well, I must say you’re a prettier sight than old Max,” he said, sizing her up without subtlety. “How’d you get that cheap bastard to hire you anyway?”
Her chiming laughter filled the dank expanse, disturbing the two or three customers huddled at the round tables. It drowned out the country music warbling from the speakers.
Strife’s mirth ended in phony nonchalance. This must be her own personal hell. The real question he should ask is why would she want the job?
“I made him a drink he’d never forget,” she said with a wink. “It’s called an Apple Jack. Want to try it?”
The stranger waved the idea away. “I’m a beer man, m’self. I don’t drink that hard shit, pardon my language.” “You know,” She poured a shot of Jack Daniels on the rocks, “it would sure make me look good to Max if you had one.” She topped it off with apple juice, and her ‘spices’. “I’d like to show him that I can sell my…specialties.”
She held the frosty glass aloft, letting the caramel color catch the meager sunlight struggling through the windows. “Just try it. For me?” The bar patron eyed it and licked his lips. The heat of the day had already seeped into the building and the lunch hour wasn’t even over yet. Sweat glittered on his upper lip. “Well…Okay,” he said. “But only if you’ll have one with me.” “Fair enough.” Strife swiped another tumbler and filled it with a scoop of ice. A shot of JD went in along with apple juice. She skipped the cinnamon shaker. No need to muddle her senses.
The man raised his drink. “To your new job.” She lifted hers in response. “To new beginnings.”
They toasted and drank deep. Strife savored the sweetness that burned. She heard the audible swallow from her new friend and caught a whiff of his boozy breath as he exhaled.
“Woo!” Strife grinned as he shook off the bite. “That’s really something.”
“Told you.” “Yep. You were right.” He swirled the contents around his jingling glass. “So where is Max anyway?” Strife pointed to her right where the barrel-chested owner wobbled to a stool. He pumped a fist in the air while he snarled about justice and retribution.
“He’s had a few of these,” Strife said. “Maybe I shouldn’t have let him have so many.”
She shrugged. Her customer’s beverage needed refreshing. This time she added extra cinnamon-flavored encouragement. The bar-fly took the refill without question. “What’s his problem?” Funny you should ask.
Strife waved a negligent hand. “He’s upset about Frank Fleisher.”
She stared at the man across from her, waiting for the desired reaction. His clouded blue eyes refocused and widened. Perfect. “Frank?” He sounded worried. “What happened to Frank?” “You don’t know?” Strife painted her face with innocence. Inwardly, she gloated. Humans were easy. “He’s been framed for murder.” His jaw gaped open like a choking victim, disbelief registering in the sudden sallowing of his leathery skin. Shallow gasps emerged from his throat.
“I don’t believe it. What happened?” The man sat primed and ready for her lies and embellishments. Like Max. And she’d just begun.
CHAPTER TWELVE Depression prevented Poetry from waking any earlier than nine. Tossing and turning for hours hadn’t helped. The morning shadows and warmth of her comforter conspired to keep her there.
She’d hidden in her room, pretending to be asleep until her parents left for work at Grant MacEwan College. As soon as she heard the door lock, she snuck up the basement stairs, showered and fixed herself breakfast. Usually she loved bacon and scrambled eggs. Today they sat like salty lard and congealed slime in her mouth.
She didn’t have a bingo dauber to color her hair, and leaving her bangs blonde made her feel naked. Wearing last night’s outfit made her look grungy. Not a good start.
She called in sick to work, claiming nausea and confessing to a long night of dealing with her ex.
“I’m sorry. I haven’t even been back to the apartment yet.” “Not a problem,” assured her boss, Carrie. “In fact, I expected this. I heard about it when I got in this morning.”
Poetry’s gut shrank. “What? From who?” “It’s all over the restaurant that he came in to harass you. Besides, Jenny already called in with the same excuse. We’re going to be short today. Good thing it’s Monday. Maybe it won’t be busy.”
Poetry’s stomach curdled. “Yeah, um, thanks. I have to go.” She hung up without saying goodbye and punched in Jenny’s cell number. While she waited for an answer, Poetry grabbed her bus pass, purse, and apartment keys.
“Please pick up, Jen.” Jenny was a pain sometimes, but Poetry could count on her. They’d been through rough patches before. Not as bad as this, but they were best friends. They’d work it out somehow.
It would be a long day. She had an a
partment to clean, but more importantly, she needed information about Adrian because he had Amir. Not to mention she needed to know what Jenny said to Carrie, and who else she’d told about yesterday’s fiasco.
Nothing. An automated voice announced that Jenny Shaw was “not available”. Leave a message after the tone. Poetry envisioned Jenny glowering at her phone when she saw Poetry’s name pop up on the display screen. Jenny was pretty upset last night. It wouldn’t surprise her if Jenny avoided her this morning.
“Hi Jen, I’m on my way back to the apartment. Give me a call when you get this. I know you’re mad at me but it’s important we talk, okay?” Poetry made her way to Stony Plain Road. A warm breeze kissed her face, bringing with it the smell of dust and a whiff of clover. Sweat tickled her back and it was only ten o’clock. Gonna be another hot one.
From Jasper Gates she could see that she’d missed the Number 7 bus. No big deal. She’d grab the 121 and walk the rest of the way. It was perfect weather for it.
She quickened her pace. If she wanted to catch any bus she’d better hustle.
# # # Poetry checked her watch. Quarter to eleven. Time was getting away from her. She glanced up to her apartment windows and braced herself for the mess.
She climbed the stairs to the third floor, thinking how open windows didn’t do much to rid the landings of the musty old building odors or the usual lunchtime smells. Nor did it disperse any of the summer heat. Like climbing a mountain in Hell.
Speaking of Hell, Poetry thought as she arrived at her apartment. The door had already been replaced, even if the frame still needed more repairs. That was quick. Her eyes were drawn to a yellow square of paper taped under the eyehole. Breakfast lurched back up to lodge in her throat.
A forty-eight hour eviction notice. Poetry’s knees jellied and she grasped the doorjamb to steady herself. She read it again through blurry vision and let her forehead smack the wood. The door creaked open slightly.
This wasn’t fair. They’d always been on time with rent. Never brought parties home or disturbed anyone. She stared at the splintered wood where her ex had kicked his way in. Then she remembered the lake on the bathroom floor. So much for the damage deposit. They’d be lucky if they didn’t get charged.
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