Tiles and Tribulations

by Tamar Myers

  “Are you saying that—”

  “Yes, Abby, I think we’re on the same page. I won’t be doing you in. It’s the cute little frogs that will be at fault. Incidentally, it’s the males you hear chirping. It’s their mating season and they’re defending their new territories.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Each word hurt like a blow to the head.

  “I’m not the one being ridiculous, Abby. I’ve collected poison dart frogs ever since high school. How much do you know about them?”

  “I meant you blaming it on the frogs. If anything does happen to me, it will be your fault, not theirs.”

  “I don’t think I like your tone, Abby. You seem to forget that you are totally in my power now. I might not be able to control Hugh, but I sure the hell can control you.” She laughed shrilly. “I’m a poet and don’t know it!”

  There was no point mincing words now. “You’re crazy.”

  “Now, now, Abby, don’t be unkind. You’ve heard of survival of the fittest, haven’t you? Well, I just happen to be more fit than you. This is all about survival.”

  “You won’t get away with it! Someday—even if it’s two hundred years from now—someone will find me, and figure it was you.”

  “Don’t you listen, Abby? I said my frogs were going to do you in, not me. I’m just laying the groundwork.”

  “Groundwork?”

  “You know that glass you broke?”

  “I didn’t break it, you did. You threw it at me.”

  “Your head broke it, Abby, it’s the same thing. Anyway, the toxins need to get in your bloodstream, or your saliva. Unfortunately I have no guarantee one will hop into your mouth—although it is possible. Therefore, I’ve taken the liberty of giving them a little assist. I’ve spread the pieces of broken glass around your body.” She laughed softly. “Actually, I was feeling generous and broke a couple of extra glasses. Don’t move too much, Abby, or you’re likely to get cut. Move a little more and you might roll over one of my babies. Touch them with one of your cuts, and that will surely do the trick.” She laughed again. “And thank you for wearing shorts, Abby. It’s going to make the frogs’ job so much easier. Oh, and I took the liberty of taking your phone and removing your sandals. I hope you don’t mind. And such small sandals they were too. Wherever do you find them?”

  “I’m not going to move, you bitch!”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. I would hate for my froggies to die. I’ll be putting some live ants in here with y’all—they eat live ants, you know—so they won’t starve. I’m afraid you won’t be quite as lucky.”

  So those were my choices. I could lie still and starve to death—never even trying to escape—or I could move. If I moved I’d risk lacerating my bare arms and legs, maybe even my cheeks. In the process I’d no doubt roll over one of the icky amphibians. Then I’d die of heart failure just like Madame Woo-Woo. Well, if I was going to die, I wanted to die with all the details.

  “How did Golda Feinstein get the poison inside her system? Did you glue a shard of glass to the play button of the recorder?”

  “No need. I just swabbed a nice thick layer of Phyllobates terribilis secretions on it. Then at some point she touched her mouth. People are forever touching mouths, eyes, and noses, Abby. That’s the primary way colds are spread—from hands to face.”

  “But I touched that same button that evening.”

  “The best secretions are fresh, Abby. I waited until I arrived the night of the séance before applying the poisonous ooze. When everyone else was preoccupied with food—those were the worst ham biscuits I’ve ever tasted, by the way—I sneaked into the dining room and made my little deposit.”

  “Worst you’ve ever tasted?” I shouted. I foolishly struggled against my bonds for a few seconds. “You take that back, bitch!”

  “Not as long as geese go barefoot. And while I’m at it, that was pretty bad cake too. Really, Abby, you and your mother should both enroll in a cooking class somewhere.”

  It was one thing to kick a pony when it’s down, but to keep kicking it when it was bound with rope and duct tape—well, there was no excuse for that. I racked my aching brain for a sufficiently worthy insult of my own. Alas, I took too long.

  “Bye-bye, Abby,” she said. “Good night, sleep tight, and don’t let the bedbugs bite. But do let the frogs hop all over you.” Then she slammed the door.

  25

  I lay still as a mummy in a collapsed pyramid. The only thing that moved was my heart, which threatened to burst from my chest. Hopefully, if that were the case, my heart would land on one of the poison dart frogs and squash it.

  Around me, in all directions, came the peeps, chirps, and trills of horny, defensive frogs. You can bet I kept my eyes and mouth tightly closed. Maybe if I could just fall asleep, I’d wake up and find it had all been a dream, a nasty nightmare brought on by eating too much chocolate Häagen Dazs. I would, of course, have been eating the ice cream while watching a video with my husband Greg, who would have been massaging my feet at the time.

  Maybe it was the blow to my head, or maybe it was the strain of the terror I was feeling, but I was actually very sleepy. I was on the verge of slipping under when I felt a soft plop on my exposed calf. It had the weight and texture of a handful of Gummy Bears. Instinctively I jerked, and the blob on my leg leaped away into the darkness. You can bet I screamed.

  In fact, I screamed so long and hard my throat and chest hurt. When I finally quit, except for a muffled echo, there were no sounds. Perhaps frogs had sensitive eardrums, and my shrieks had killed them all, or at least disabled them. But then again, did frogs even have ears?

  I lay there in the dark for what seemed like hours, waiting for the frogs to resume their chirping, my muscles tensed against the feel of soft frog flesh on mine. But except for the pounding of my heart, and a rhythmic whoosh in my ears, the room was silent. Eventually I fell asleep, jerked myself awake a minute or two later, and fell asleep again. Finally, I succumbed to a deep sleep of utter exhaustion. As I was going under I dreamed that an angel appeared and swept me out of the room. She—it was definitely a female angel—told me I was on my way home, and that I’d wake up in my own bed. Before I got there, however, I had to pass through a very warm place.

  I have no idea how long I was out, but when I awoke my circumstances had changed considerably; my hands and feet were untied, but most importantly, I was no longer blindfolded. I was not, however, back home in my bed.

  “Well, well, Sleeping Beauty finally decided to wake up.”

  I blinked. Looking down at me was the Statue of Liberty. I blinked again.

  “It still fits, doesn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “The dress, you idiot. I wore this gown when I won Miss Congeniality in the Miss Cape Fear Shrimp and Grits Festival. It’s my favorite, you know—prawn pink is my color, don’t you think? Anyway, I would have worn it in the Miss Regional Okra pageant, except that some cracker judge spilled shrimp sauce on it.”

  My eyes were serving me better now. I could see that it was Sondra, not Miss Liberty, looming above me. She was wearing a stained pink gown that, contrary to her claim, didn’t fit well at all. Bulges strained at the waist, and the madwoman’s bosom and the dress’s darts did not match up. Diagonally, from broad shoulder to bulging waist, she wore a sash. Crowning her head was a huge tiara, which must have looked quite stunning back in the days when its cheap faux crystals still glittered.

  The sash had yellowed with age, making the gold letters on it hard to read. I tried sounding them out aloud.

  “Miss Congenital—”

  “That’s congeniality,” she snapped. “So, what do you think of your new digs?”

  I hadn’t seen my “old” digs, but I sat and took stock of my supposedly new surroundings. I was in for several big surprises. The first surprise was that I’d been lying on a cot with a mattress—albeit the mattress was so filthy I wouldn’t have used it in an outdoor doghouse. The second surprise was e
ven bigger; I was wearing a leg iron, which was chained to the cot.

  “What the hell!”

  Sondra smiled. “I can’t have my guest just up and leave me now, can I?”

  “I’m not your guest!”

  “Why of course you are. You’re in my house, aren’t you?”

  “Am I?” It appeared that I was in an attic room somewhere. The ceiling sloped sharply in one direction, and there were no windows, except for a series of very small, but deep, dormers. They were barely more than tubes that extended through the sloped ceiling and roof to the outside. In centuries past these miniature dormers might have served as air vents for slaves or indentured servants. Time had taken its toll on this seldom-used part of the house, and at least two of the tiny windows were missing their glass panes.

  “This is a big house,” Sondra said, stating the obvious. “There are twenty-four regular rooms, and then the attic. The attic has eight rooms. Hugh never comes up here—hates the stairs. In fact, he almost never even goes upstairs at all. I get to do anything I want with the attic. Of course in the summer it’s too hot to do much of anything, even with the air-conditioning we installed a few years back.”

  That’s when I first noticed how hot it was. Imagine, if you will, climbing into a black car that has been parked in full sun all day. Sweat trickled down my sides, and my legs and arms were glistening. At least my legs weren’t bleeding. It appeared I had missed the broken glass.

  “There’s air-conditioning up here?” I asked.

  She nodded and pointed to a vent on the floor, about the size of a cereal box top. “Can’t you feel it?”

  “Cold air sinks.”

  “Well, it’s there, and I wouldn’t be ungrateful, if I were you. I’ll be more than happy to close the vent.”

  “No, please don’t! I just didn’t notice it at first—but now I do.”

  “That’s better, Abby. That’s a more cooperative spirit. I mean, I could have put you in one of the rooms that didn’t have any vents. Besides, I’ve got to save the coolest room for my frogs.”

  I glanced around. “Your frogs! I almost forgot about them. They’re not in this room?”

  “Oh no, I moved you during the night. I decided you posed too much of a threat to my babies.”

  “Your babies?”

  “My poison dart frogs, you idiot! Abby, you’re even slower than I thought.”

  “Well, it’s hot—uh, not as cool as I’m used to.” I screwed up the courage to ask the question I’d been too afraid to ask. “What do you plan to do with me?”

  “Ha! Now that’s a sensible question.” She sighed. “It would have been easier if you’d just cooperated.”

  “You mean, quietly cut myself and waited for a frog to hop on board?”

  “You don’t need to be sarcastic, Abby. It doesn’t become you. You’ve been a real strain, you know—I was hardly able to sleep all night. But,” she said, her voice brightening. “I thought of a solution.”

  “You’re going to let me go?” It never hurts to have a positive attitude.

  “I’m going to hold you for ransom.”

  “What?”

  “Abby, you’ve obviously got money—what with living South of Broad, and owning your own shop. I got some good stuff out of Jane Cox’s house, but I think I can get even more for you.”

  I can’t deny that I was flattered. Imagine, little ol’ me being worth more than four-hundred-year-old Portuguese tiles, solid gold faucets, and who knows what else that home decorator had discovered with her eagle eye. There was one thing, however, that still concerned me.

  “As soon as the ransom is paid,” I said in my most nonchalant voice, “you’re going to let me go, right?”

  She laughed long and heartily. “Oh, Abby, you are so amusing at times. Of course I can’t let you go.”

  “You plan to kill me?”

  “Well, I’d have to now, wouldn’t I?”

  “How?”

  “I’m a reasonable woman, Abby. I’m sure we can work out the details together.”

  “Death by chocolate?”

  She didn’t find that amusing. She stamped a long narrow foot, and the silly tiara tilted rakishly.

  “You’re wasting my time.” She pointed to a blue plastic bucket in the corner. “There’s your bathroom—I don’t want you messing anything in here. You’re going to have to scoot your bed over to use it.”

  “What about water? And food?”

  “I’ll take care of that later.”

  “Oh goody, room service.”

  “There’s that sarcasm again, Abby. You know how much I hate it.” She put her hands on her spreading hips, assuming a very un-beauty-queen-like pose. “On second thought, you won’t be getting any food. Just water—if you’re lucky. You’ll need to be able to talk in case I have to put you on the phone.”

  “I’m sorry!”

  “Too late, Abby.” She took a last look around. “Enjoy your stay at Chez Riffle,” she said, without a hint of humor. Then she spun on her six-inch heels, strode to the door, and slammed it behind her.

  I heard the lock turn, and then the clicking of her stilettos, which grew fainter by the second. Once again I was enveloped by a silence almost as stifling as the heat.

  The promised water was slow in coming. To conserve bodily fluids I lay quietly on the bed while I considered my options. I could drag the bed over to one of the miniature dormers—one with the glass missing—and shout for help. But what if Sondra heard me? Then it would be curtains for sure.

  Another option was to drag the bed over to the door and jam the headboard under the doorknob. Then, if I could somehow free my foot from its shackle, I could call for help. Sondra might not be able to force the door open with the bed in the way. Silly me, why not free myself first, and then drag the bed to the door? But how was I going to free my foot? I couldn’t exactly gnaw it off like an animal caught in a trap.

  An animal caught in a trap! That’s what I was. The only difference between this two-legged animal and a four-legged one in the woods, was that my leg was merely encased by metal, it wasn’t punctured in multiple places by steel jaws. In that regard, I was a whole lot better off than the four-legged kind.

  On the other hand, they say that we humans are the only creatures aware of our mortality. Assuming this is true—and it’s a rather arrogant assumption, if you ask me—I was in one way worse off than my more furry brethren. I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I was at the mercy of a whacko who meant to follow through on her threat.

  The third option was to somehow overpower her on her next visit. But since I didn’t even have a shoe with which to konk her on the noggin, I didn’t hold out much hope for that. I could try to hit her in the face with the plastic bucket, or its contents, but then what? As long as I remained shackled to the bed, I was at her mercy.

  As I lay pondering my limited options, I began to hallucinate. Perhaps it was because I’d been thinking of small furry animals, but I distinctly heard my cat Dmitri meowing from somewhere above and behind me. At first it was a comforting sound, kind of like the surf, when the waves are up only a foot or so.

  “Mama loves you too,” I murmured. As long as there was no one there to document my behavior, there was no reason not to talk back to my hallucination. It’s not like I was totally around the bend, like the first runner-up in the Miss Hell Swamp contest.

  Dmitri, bless his fur-covered heart, talked back. In fact, he talked so loudly, and so continuously, I began to get annoyed. I tried to steer hallucination to a more soothing audio track, like the aforementioned small waves, but to no avail. Hallucinations, unlike daydreams, don’t have a whole lot of maneuverability.

  “Stop it, Dmitri!” I shouted.

  The meowing stopped on command, only to be followed by a light thump on the floor, and the tinkle of a bell. Holy moly, now I was hallucinating about giant poison dart frogs. If one that big landed on me, I wouldn’t even need abrasions to suffer its ill effects. But I’d heard a bel
l. Poison dart frogs from the Amazon probably don’t wear bells around their necks, but cats sometimes do. And we were in the habit of attaching a bell to Dmitri’s collar every time we let him outside, in order to give the birds he encountered a chance to escape.

  Meowowow.

  It was a distinctively Dmitri sound. I turned, daring to hope. Surely even the most exotic South American frogs were incapable of imitating cats, and my ten-pound bundle of joy in particular.

  “Dmitri!” I cried. “It is you! You really are here!”

  My big yellow tomcat raced across the room and leaped into my arms. I burst into tears. Oblivious to salt water splashing on him, Dmitri began to knead my thighs like they were twin loaves of dough. I babbled and blubbered while he purred. If this was a hallucination, then I had surely missed out on a lot of good stuff in the seventies by being a goody two-shoes.

  Suddenly Dmitri froze. I didn’t hear anything, but his ears were pinned back, every muscle in his body tensed. Then I heard the faint click of stiletto heels.

  There are occasions in which time loses all meaning. It seemed like I was thinking in slow motion, and I don’t remember actually deciding to do what I did—I just did it. I removed the bell on Dmitri’s collar, crammed it into the pocket of my shorts, and replaced it with my wedding band. Then mustering strength I never knew I had, I dragged the bed beneath the nearest open dormer. Standing on the filthy mattress I lifted my bundle of joy to the small opening.

  Dmitri was reluctant to leave. His back claws raked my hands while he struggled to get down.

  “Please,” I begged him, “go back home. Go see daddy—or grandma. Please!”

  I heard the key turn in the lock and shoved him through the opening. “Go!”

  The door swung open while I was still standing, my arms raised above my head. At least I’d been caught empty-handed.

  “Abby, what the hell are you doing?” Sondra had changed into a blue gown. Her sash read: Miss Pine Bark Mulch.

  “I’m exercising,” I said, trying hard not to sound sarcastic.

  “Why are you next to the window?”