Read Online What Curiosity Kills by Helen Ellis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Helen Ellis
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fishes in her book bag for her key chain, while Marjorie readies her fingers over the pad.
But then they simultaneously freeze.
"What?" Octavia whispers.
The twins are more attuned to their surroundings than we are and thus must have picked up on what my sister and I are now hearing. From the depths of their apartment, the noise is getting closer.
Crying.
Terrible, terrible, terrible crying.
When the twins open the door, Peanut Butter and Jelly are standing on the threshold and screaming. It's not meowing. I've heard these two cats "talk" before and even "yell" at each other when they play-fight, but what they sound like now are inconsolable babies. Their slick, cream-colored hair stands on end. Their backs arch. The centers of their spines are level with their pointy black ears. Their tails puff. Their trimmed claws are out, curled downward. The blunt tips dig into the hardwood like thirty-six tiny sickles. Their black paws hover above the floor.
"Peanut Butter!" admonishes Mags.
"Jelly!" Marjorie says.
Octavia shrinks into the far corner of the receiving area. She hugs her book bag to her chest. She shuts her eyes and prays— as if God will stop what he's doing, reach down, pinch her collar, and airlift her back to 72nd and Lex.
My sister has a fear of cats. She usually keeps it in check around Peanut Butter and Jelly but refuses to be left alone with them. Up until now, they've never done anything I'd consider scary. Peanut Butter only swats at you if you get up in his grill. I always figured Octavia was irrationally scared of cats like other people are scared of snakes and spiders. That's the thing about living with someone you haven't known your whole life. You never truly know what's going to freak that person out, how badly, or when.
Octavia slams the heel of her hand against the elevator button. She beats it. If I didn't know any better, I would think she's going to break it or jam the elevator car. The twins and I gape at her, momentarily forgetting the braying cats. The elevator arrow ticks, pausing sporadically between numbers 1 and 14 as it crawls toward PH. The crying and pounding must be echoing down the shaft.
The call button light goes out. I hear the car rising into place. In five seconds, the door will open, and the twins' mom will never forgive them for exposing the secret that they're harboring cats. This building doesn't allow pets. Kathryn Ann tips the doormen extra every Christmas to look the other way. If anyone from a lower floor has come along to investigate what's going on up here, the twins are in big trouble. Marjorie and Mags grab hold of Octavia and drag her into their apartment.
The cats scatter. I scoot in after them and pull the door shut.
We hear the elevator door slide open and a doorman give a nosy neighbor the brush-off. "Babies? No ma'am. I didn't hear any babies."
The elevator door closes, and away they go.
The cats come back. They slink silently, shoulder to shoulder, a pack of two. The fur on one side of each of their pale necks is wet. Kathryn Ann's house policy is to leave the kitchen sink barely running so that her "darlings" can tilt their heads under the skinny stream and drink fresh water whenever they want. I wonder what it's like for the twins to live with Peanut Butter and Jelly, another set of siblings who are older than they are but never grew up.
The cats slither toward me.
"Boys!" says Marjorie. "What is wrong with you?"
They sniff my knee socks, sniff my shoes. Do they smell the orange fuzz? Of course they do. I stiffen like a stop sign. To me, the fuzz smells like the rest of me. To Peanut Butter and Jelly, it must smell unnatural. They must be trying to figure out if I'm friend or foe. Or too sick to stay near.
Marjorie says, "Boys, you know Mary. It's Mary!"
Mags says, "She must have gotten that pot on her socks."
"Since when do cats like pot?" asks
But then they simultaneously freeze.
"What?" Octavia whispers.
The twins are more attuned to their surroundings than we are and thus must have picked up on what my sister and I are now hearing. From the depths of their apartment, the noise is getting closer.
Crying.
Terrible, terrible, terrible crying.
When the twins open the door, Peanut Butter and Jelly are standing on the threshold and screaming. It's not meowing. I've heard these two cats "talk" before and even "yell" at each other when they play-fight, but what they sound like now are inconsolable babies. Their slick, cream-colored hair stands on end. Their backs arch. The centers of their spines are level with their pointy black ears. Their tails puff. Their trimmed claws are out, curled downward. The blunt tips dig into the hardwood like thirty-six tiny sickles. Their black paws hover above the floor.
"Peanut Butter!" admonishes Mags.
"Jelly!" Marjorie says.
Octavia shrinks into the far corner of the receiving area. She hugs her book bag to her chest. She shuts her eyes and prays— as if God will stop what he's doing, reach down, pinch her collar, and airlift her back to 72nd and Lex.
My sister has a fear of cats. She usually keeps it in check around Peanut Butter and Jelly but refuses to be left alone with them. Up until now, they've never done anything I'd consider scary. Peanut Butter only swats at you if you get up in his grill. I always figured Octavia was irrationally scared of cats like other people are scared of snakes and spiders. That's the thing about living with someone you haven't known your whole life. You never truly know what's going to freak that person out, how badly, or when.
Octavia slams the heel of her hand against the elevator button. She beats it. If I didn't know any better, I would think she's going to break it or jam the elevator car. The twins and I gape at her, momentarily forgetting the braying cats. The elevator arrow ticks, pausing sporadically between numbers 1 and 14 as it crawls toward PH. The crying and pounding must be echoing down the shaft.
The call button light goes out. I hear the car rising into place. In five seconds, the door will open, and the twins' mom will never forgive them for exposing the secret that they're harboring cats. This building doesn't allow pets. Kathryn Ann tips the doormen extra every Christmas to look the other way. If anyone from a lower floor has come along to investigate what's going on up here, the twins are in big trouble. Marjorie and Mags grab hold of Octavia and drag her into their apartment.
The cats scatter. I scoot in after them and pull the door shut.
We hear the elevator door slide open and a doorman give a nosy neighbor the brush-off. "Babies? No ma'am. I didn't hear any babies."
The elevator door closes, and away they go.
The cats come back. They slink silently, shoulder to shoulder, a pack of two. The fur on one side of each of their pale necks is wet. Kathryn Ann's house policy is to leave the kitchen sink barely running so that her "darlings" can tilt their heads under the skinny stream and drink fresh water whenever they want. I wonder what it's like for the twins to live with Peanut Butter and Jelly, another set of siblings who are older than they are but never grew up.
The cats slither toward me.
"Boys!" says Marjorie. "What is wrong with you?"
They sniff my knee socks, sniff my shoes. Do they smell the orange fuzz? Of course they do. I stiffen like a stop sign. To me, the fuzz smells like the rest of me. To Peanut Butter and Jelly, it must smell unnatural. They must be trying to figure out if I'm friend or foe. Or too sick to stay near.
Marjorie says, "Boys, you know Mary. It's Mary!"
Mags says, "She must have gotten that pot on her socks."
"Since when do cats like pot?" asks
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