by Joan Hess
“Like screaming bloody murder at midnight?”
“Not exactly,” Jean said with a bloodless little chuckle. “Once she claimed someone had stolen her mother’s diamond earrings. Her roommates finally got tired of listening to her whine and searched her things while she was in study hall. The earrings were at the bottom of her laundry bag-and they were rhinestone. Another time she was accidentally locked in the chapter room after a meeting. She was in absolute hysterics by the time I found her all of five minutes later You’d have thought the room was haunted by hundred-year-old alumnae staggering around like mummies. It was too funny.”
“And you think this alleged encounter tonight is another stunt to get attention?”
“Well, we all dashed out to the yard and carried her into the house. Winkle was fluttering about like a dazed moth, alternately suggesting cold compresses and hot tea. Now you’re here, along with the police. I’d have to say she certainly is getting attention, although, of course, it’s not exactly the kind to which Kappas aspire.”
The housemother came into the lounge. “Jean, the officers think we should have a locksmith come by tomorrow and check the security system. I have something on my calendar Will you take care of it?”
“Of course, Winkle. What about Debbie Anne? Are they done with her?”
“I’ve sent her to bed. There was so little she could tell them that it was hardly worth their coming.” She looked at me as if I’d just popped up from the upholstery. “They’re waiting for you in the foyer. I do hope you’ll avoid causing any more disruptions, at least for tonight. Katie and I would like to get some sleep.”
“Katie?” I said despite myself.
“Katie is the house cat,” Winkie said. “It’s traditional for all Kappa houses to have cats named Katie. Please lock up, Jean, and turn off the porch lights. Good night, girls.” She veered around the sofa, barely avoiding an end table, and weaved out of the room.
I glanced at Jean, who was watching the housemother’s retreat with a faint sneer She appeared to be enjoying whatever condemnatory thoughts she entertained, so I did not wish her sweet dreams on my way to the foyer and the local version of the Spanish Inquisition.
I repeated my succinct story, and after a few avowals that I’d seen no one in the vicinity, I was escorted to my door and thanked for my overly zealous call. The adjective was mine, but the snickers were all theirs. This may have resulted in my unnecessarily elaborate expression of gratitude for their prompt arrival and subsequently thorough and piercing investigation, but in the midst of it, I realized I hadn’t seen Caron in over an hour and went upstairs.
The child was nestled and snug in her bed, snoring gently while visions of convertibles danced in her head. I thought about waking her long enough to tell her she was grounded in perpetuity, but finally went on to bed, where I devised even more intricate forms of torture. In the middle of scheming to adopt Rhonda Maguire and make Caron share her bedroom, I fell asleep.
The next morning she was gone. The fact that her bed was made and her room marginally tidy, coupled with the neatness of the kitchen and lack of toothpaste smears in the bathroom sink, led me to believe she knew what lay in store for her Smart kid, although we both knew she couldn’t dodge me indefinitely.
I started coffee, then went downstairs to fetch the morning newspaper This usually required a rigorous search under shrubs, behind trees, and more often than not in the gutter, where it could soak up grime or be flattened by cars. To my surprise, it lay in the middle of the porch, with a pink construction-paper cutout propped against it. I gathered both and returned to the kitchen. The cutout was that of a fat, stylized cat, and the printed message read: “Katie the Kappa Kitten Says Thanks!” Handwritten below that was: “For being such a good neighbor!” It was signed by Jean Hall.
Somehow or other, this was all Caron’s fault, I decided as I drank a fast cup of coffee, tucked the newspaper under my arm, and headed back downstairs. Even though it was two blocks out of my way, I turned right and took the long route to the Book Depot, unwilling to be confronted by a single Kappa, much less by a pink apparition that purported to be overwhelmed with gratitude. I felt queasy, and I doubted it was because of the coffee.
No one disturbed me all morning, I’m sorry to say, and I was packing up returns when the first tinkle of the day lured me out of the office. A young woman with an ash-blond helmet of hair and glittery blue eyes was waiting for me, her plump cheeks dimpled with anticipation. Had she not been wearing a pink sweatshirt emblazoned with the Greek letters kappa, theta, and eta, I might not have recognized her. Had Caron Malloy not been hovering behind her, an exceedingly leery expression on her face, I might not have leaped as swiftly to the conclusion that I did, albeit regretfully.
“Hi, Mrs. Malloy,” the woman said, dimpling madly. “I’m Pippa Edmondson, and I wanted to come by to thank you for being so swell last night. We were all so stunned by what happened to poor Debbie Anne-or what she said happened-that we didn’t even think to call the police. I can’t remember when we’ve ever had them at the Kappa house.”
“You’re more than welcome,” I said pleasantly to her, although I shot a vexed look at my darling daughter. “I was relieved to find out no one was harmed. That’s all that matters, so I suggest we let the matter drop and go on about our separate ways.”
“No way,” Pippa protested, widening her eyes as if she were choking. “We talked it over with Winkie, and we want you and Caron to come for dinner tonight. It won’t be anything fancy, since the cooks are off for the summer and we take turns in the kitchen, but National stresses the importance of being on friendly terms with our neighbors, and right now you must think we’re dreadfully rude to disturb you so late at night. We really, really would like to prove to you that we’re not the least bit that way, and that we’re grateful that you cared enough about our safety to call the police.”
I edged back into the office doorway. “All I did was dial a total of ten digits, which hardly entitles me to a medal of valor or even a free meal, and someone else would have called if I hadn’t. As I said, I’d prefer to forget the incident.”
Pippa advanced like a rabid cheerleader, flecks of saliva gathering in the corners of her mouth and her voice rising in pitch. “Oh, please come for dinner, Mrs. Malloy. We have this darling pin that we present to special friends of Kappa Theta Eta, and a little song we sing about the importance of good neighbors.”
It was getting worse with each sentence she uttered. Was I to be dressed in a pristine pink robe and required to hold a candle while they crooned to me? Would I be rewarded with a pastel cat to take home and nurture? Did they plan on a ritual involving the letting of blood and some sort of irrevocable lifetime relationship?
“I’ll… uh, I’ll be back in a minute,” I stammered, then ducked into the cramped office and closed the door before she could sink her sororal fangs into my neck. I’d attended a large university with numerous fraternities and sororities, but I’d done so during the early seventies, when political radicalism overshadowed the dubious rewards of communal living among the reactionaries who were more concerned with future country-club membership than with the war in Vietnam. While we picketed all day and stayed up all night grinding out primitive pamphlets denouncing almost everybody, they participated in sports, filled the positions on the Homecoming court, and posed for yearbook photos. I don’t seem to recall any great animosity between the two factions. They went about their business, which was to find suitable spouses, complete degrees that would result in good jobs, establish bonds for future networking, and have elaborate parties at which either bedsheets or tuxedos and formals were proper attire.
And now I was trapped by one. I, a woman approaching forty, equipped with her own business, apartment, car payment, overdue quarterly tax estimate, and stretch marks, was leaning against the door, holding my breath as I strained to hear any sound, even the tiniest squeak, that might indicate Pippa and my treacherous daughter were leaving.
&nbs
p; There was a back door that led to the weedy parking lot. On more than one memorable occasion, I’d fled through the door, dashed along the railroad tracks, and eventually climbed up the overgrown banks. But those flights had been necessary to avert such petty annoyances as being arrested. Surely I was capable of dealing with a lone sorority girl, even if she was burdened with a cute nickname and dimplemania.
I inched the door open and heard Caron say, “I used to adore those dopey romances by Azalea Twilight, but that was a long time ago.”
“Me, too,” gushed Pippa. “Did you ever read the one about the gorgeous nuclear physicist who falls in love with the Russian spy who’s actually a double agent for the CIA? I thought I’d die when he…
I went out the back door and stood in the parking lot. The railroad tracks stretched into the distance and finally curled out of sight beneath an overpass. The brush on the banks was pale green, dotted with small yellow splashes of hawkweed and lacy white yarrow. What thorns and thistles I knew were there were invisible; the growth looked as innocuous as a pastel baby blanket. There was a path near the overpass that zagged up to a street not more than three blocks from my apartment.
Was I a woman or was I a wimp?
More pertinently, was I willing to risk running into good ol’ Arnie or yet another Greek bearing a construction-paper gift? I finally squared my shoulders and went back into the office, rehearsing polite if fanciful refusals in my mind. My favorite involved ministering to lepers in the basement of the hospital, but it proved unnecessary when I again inched open the door and ascertained that Caron and her mentor were gone.
Feeling as if the commandant had canceled the firing squad at the last nanosecond, I made sure they weren’t hiding behind a rack, then went to the counter to see if Caron had pilfered the pitiful contents of the cash register. There, propped on the keys, was another pink paper cat. The printed message still read: “Katie the Kappa Kitten Says Thanks!” This time the handwritten one read: “For coming to dinner at seven o’clock tonight!”
Cursing under my breath, I searched the store and made sure I had the only perfidious pink cutout. I considered the pleasure I could find in ripping it into a fine pile of pink flakes and scraping them into the wastebasket, set it back on the cash register, and called Peter at the Farberville Police Department.
When he came on the line, I dismissed the idea of accusing the Kappas of terroristic activity and said, “Let’s go to the cabin tonight, okay? I’ll grab a couple of steaks salad, and a bottle of red wine. All you’ll have to do is-”
“I can’t waltz off in the middle of the week,” he said, sounding rather grumpy considering the graciousness of my invitation. “Neither can you, for that matter. You spent two hours last night telling me how poor business is in the summer If you close the bookstore, it’s liable to be worse than poor.”
“I didn’t say I would close the bookstore. Caron can handle it for a day or two.”
“Well, she can’t handle this mess I’m into this week- and don’t get any wild ideas about mysterious deaths caused by poisonous South American tree frogs or blunt objects. Things are so slow around here that I’m temporarily on the community relations and crime prevention squad.”
“How exciting,” I said with a yawn. “What crimes are you preventing?”
“The one we’re not preventing is shoplifting. Now that the kids are out of school, they seem dedicated to stealing the contents of the mall, one piece of merchandise at a time. Some of them are happy with a cassette or a pair of sunglasses, but we’re dealing with some slick professionals, too.”
The Kappa Kitten leered at me. “Surely you can get away for one night,” I said, lapsing into a despicable female wheedle. “It doesn’t get dark until after nine, so we don’t have to leave until you’re off duty. We’ll be there in time to sit on the deck and watch the sunset, then broil steaks while the stars come out.”
“Last night you were more concerned with mosquitoes than starlight. I distinctly remember some caustic remarks about the menace of Mother Nature and your unwillingness to risk what was apt to be a saggy bed and a dearth of hot water”
I’d been pretty damn eloquent, too. “I’ve changed my mind, Peter I think we really need to get away, if only for one night, to discuss our relationship.”
“Do you?” he said in an infuriatingly mild voice. “I have to meet with mall security at nine, but I can come by after that to… discuss our relationship.”
The Kappa Kitten licked its lips. “That’s too late. We need to leave for the cabin no later than six o’clock. We can’t discuss anything when Caron might barge in with some new scheme to make her first million. I don’t understand why you can’t tell Jorgeson or somebody to meet with the mall cops.”
“Because I can’t. Listen, if you’re so frantic to go to the cabin, let me call my buddy and see if we can use it this weekend. We can have a couple of lazy, peaceful days to discuss whatever it is that you find so urgent, and Caron won’t have the slightest idea how to find us.”
“Then you refuse to go today?” I asked coolly.
“What’s wrong with this weekend?”
“Nothing at all. I suggest you warn Jorgeson to stock up on bug spray. I’m sure he’ll be great company for you in the brass bed!” I slammed down the receiver, and when it rang seconds later, I grabbed the feather duster and stalked around the counter to attack the classics with serious dedication.
3
“Welcome to Kappa Theta Eta, Mrs. Malloy,” said the girl who must have been hovering just inside the doorway of the house. I’d seen her the night before, but only briefly before she and the one I now knew as Pippa had retreated. She was a beautiful girl, with waist-length black hair, deep blue eyes, dramatically sculpted cheekbones, and a dusky complexion that hinted of exotic forebears. “I’m Rebecca Faulkner,” she continued in the mellifluous voice of a well-trained singer. “It’s so kind of you to accept our invitation, and I’d love to show you the house.”
“Is Caron here?” I said as I forced myself to step over the threshold of a residence that produced pink paper cats with the efficiency of a factory line.
“She’s in Pippa’s room.” Rebecca took off like a tour guide, and I followed like a tourist plagued with blisters. I admired the foyer and the living room, which were the only rooms in which men were permitted, and then the lounge, the dining room (apparently busboys were a subspecies), the door to the kitchen, and a short hallway lined with closed doors. All of it was decorated in pink, since, as Rebecca told me, their official colors were pink and white. I was not surprised. I subsequently learned that their official flower was a pink rose, their official mascot the beloved Katie the Kappa Kitten, and their official chapter name Delta Delta. Fearing I was on the verge of learning the brand of their official toothpaste, I declined an invitation to explore the two upper floors and asked to speak to Caron.
“But we haven’t been to Winkie’s suite,” Rebecca said, visibly dismayed by my presumptuous intrusion into the itinerary “All guests have to be formally introduced to the housemother. It’s a rule from National. I escort you to her suite and introduce you, then you and she come to the dining room together.” She looked over her shoulder nervously, as if a spy from National might be lurking in a corner, grimly recording this unseemly deviation from procedure. “Then you’ll have a chance to meet Katie, Mrs. Malloy. Don’t you want to meet Katie in person?”
I did not point out the oxymoronic reality that one does not meet an animal in person, nor did I mention my animosity toward the species. It was clear to me by now that there was no hope of winning a battle, or even a minor skirmish, with an organization that dictated the color of the toilet seats.
“By all means, then,” I said, “let’s visit Katie.”
Rebecca led me across the foyer and knocked on a door. “Mrs. Malloy is here, Winkle,” she called, almost reverently.
Winkie opened the door and invited us in. “I’m so pleased you accepted our invitation, Mrs.
Malloy. Kappas should be on friendly terms with their neighbors, and the girls should have invited you and your daughter to visit us years ago.”
Her tiny living room was decorated in pink (surprise, surprise), and there was a dusty arrangement of pink silk roses on a coffee table. On the sofa was a long-haired cat; its white fur was the only relief thus far from the relentless pinkness. It gazed at me without interest, and I reciprocated in like.
“May I offer you a glass of wine?” Winkie said in a conspiratorial voice. “Alcohol is forbidden in the house, but since there are so few girls this summer, I decided it might be all right to have a little nip now and then.”
I realized that Rebecca had faded away. “That would be lovely, Mrs. Winklebury.”
“You must call me Winkle. Sit there right by Katie and I’ll get the glasses and the decanter.” She moved out of view, but continued talking. “I do hope you were able to get to sleep last night after that minor bother. Debbie Anne never stops to think what effect her actions may have on others. We had a long talk this afternoon, and I feel confident that she’ll behave more appropriately in the future.”
“Did the police officers catch the prowler?” I asked as I sat down at the opposite end of the sofa from Katie, bleakly suspecting my dark slacks would be covered with cat hair forever after That particular kind of magnetism seems to be the tribulation borne by non-cat fanciers.
Winkle returned with two glasses and a chipped decanter. “Is burgundy all right? I have a little chablis, but it’s old and might not be any good.” She served the wine and settled into a rocking chair, her shoes barely touching the worn pink carpet, her dress smoothed over her knees, her face crimped with pleasure in anticipation of a cozy chat, She reminded me of a child playing in her great-grandmother’s parlor. “Frankly, Claire-if I may call you that?-I doubt there was a prowler The girl has a vivid imagination, to put it kindly, and on other occasions has disrupted the house and caused scenes.”
