Aphrodite's War (6 page)

She swallowed. “I have no idea.” At least Poetry sounded calmer than
she felt. She listened to the strange voices and static for a lengthy
moment, trying to pull her head together.

“We should go inside,” Adrian said. “The police will want to speak to
you. And Jenny needs you right now.”
“Go on in,” the cop shifted aside. “If you’re involved in any way we
need your cooperation.”
Convincing argument, but now wasn’t the time to fall apart. Poetry
braved the threshold.

The chaos made her want to spin around and run. She smelled oranges
and pungent onions mixed with raw burger. Margarine adorned the walls
like abstract art. The word ‘slut’ and a ‘c’ word she found too disgusting
to say out loud were traced in mustard and ketchup across the
refrigerator.

As she inched inside she realized she didn’t trip over any shoes. All of
them, runners, pumps and boots lay in a charred pile in the center of the
living room rug. Soot blackened the ceiling.

Jenny perched awkwardly on the arm of the gutted sofa, Gary’s arms
secure around her. She hadn’t even changed out of her work clothes. She
glanced up with her tear-streaked face and a lump of guilt wedged in
Poetry’s throat.

“We tried phoning you,” Jenny said. “The landlord called me home
from work. We had no idea where you were.”
“I know,” Poetry shied away from the aggravated confusion in
Jenny’s eyes. “It was off. In case Kevin tried to call.”
An officer meandered toward Poetry. When she moved to address
him, she saw the contents of the cat box spread over the kitchen floor.
Amir.
“Amir?” Panic seized her. All other thoughts washed away as she
pushed Adrian aside.
“Where’s my cat?”

She stomped to the bathroom, ignoring the cold water seeping into her
shoes from the cracked toilet. Shampoo and mousse slimed every
surface; the chemical stench teased her nose. Eyeshadow made pretty
puddles of pink and blue.

But no Amir.
Her breath came in painful gasps. She circled to her bedroom door.

What bedroom door? It lay in separate pieces on each side of the
room.
“Amir!”

“Poetry calm down,” Jenny said. But Poetry heard her like a distant
shout from another reality. She flicked the light switch and stomped over
what remained of her scattered possessions. She slipped and skidded
over a lake of beads. “Amir baby, where are you?”

“Mew?” The muffled response came from her end table.
Poetry nearly collapsed with relief. “Where are you, sweetie?”

She clambered over her slashed mattress and pillows, through a cloud
of feathers to the dim corner, noting the shattered glass of her reading
lamp.

If he hurt my cat, I’ll kill him.

Poetry had no doubt in her mind that Kevin had done this. No one else
could be capable of so much hatred. And Jenny didn’t have any
weirdoes in her past.

Why hadn’t she seen this coming?
She carefully squeezed her way into the tiny space between her bed
and closet, listening for Amir.
“Mew.” His call was faint. She strained her vision scanning the shardstrewn carpet.
She hunched, careful not to kneel in the sharp mess or place her hands
in the black and gold splinters remaining on the nightstand.
Amir languished in the corner like a discarded stuffed toy, his halfshut blues gazing at nothing.

Joy mingled with intense terror. “Oh my poor angel,” she said,
picking him up with as much tenderness as she could with shaking
hands. “Are you okay, baby?”

But it wasn’t her trembling like that. It was Amir. His fluffy body felt
feverish and frail. His breathing seemed labored. The taste of
regurgitated shrimp and beer hit the back of Poetry’s throat.

She’d only had him a few weeks. She’d been stupid to leave Amir so
vulnerable. She should have had a neighbor watching him. Or a
babysitter. Maybe she was a shitty mommy and shouldn’t have brought
him home at all.

Fresh tears gushed. That bastard will pay.
“Miss Manousakis?”

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 understood 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