Escape Claws. Linda Reilly
There were so many other things she wanted to say, so many questions she wanted to ask. But right at the moment she was chicken, so she stuck to a safe subject. “They seem like great kids. Is Darryl dyslexic?”
“No,” her aunt said. “But in school he’s extremely shy, nearly phobic about reading aloud in class. He knows the words, but when he has to pronounce them he gets all tongue-tied. He’s making progress, but it’s slow going.”
Having located the peanut butter, Lara made the kids a bunch of cracker “sandwiches.” She set them on plates, poured two glasses of milk, and plopped everything on a tray. It was the same treat, she remembered, that her aunt used to give her every day after school.
A sudden wave of nostalgia washed over her—a longing for things to be the way they used to be. In her mind’s eye she saw Aunt Fran, young and healthy with her knees in perfect condition. The kitchen scrubbed clean, the linoleum gleaming. Lush pots of spider plants hanging in the windows. A pan of butterscotch brownies cooling on the stove. And on the kitchen table, a large pad of sketch paper and a package of colored pencils waiting for her when she got home from school.
Home from school, but not really home. Lara had never actually lived with Aunt Fran. But since her folks had regular day jobs and Aunt Fran taught middle school, she went to her aunt’s each afternoon and stayed until her dad picked her up.
Shaking herself of her memories, Lara carried the tray into the small parlor and abruptly stopped short. On the floor sat Darryl, The Jungle Book open before him on the red table. He was reading aloud without hesitation, pronouncing each word perfectly.
But that wasn’t the most shocking part. Next to Darryl was a beautiful Ragdoll cat with shining azure eyes. Peering over Darryl’s arm as he read, the cat glanced up at Lara in mild recognition and swished her tail. Lara took in a sharp breath.
“Blue?” The name escaped her lips in a ragged whisper.
Her heart pounded. Adrenaline gushed through her like a busted water pipe.
But it can’t be Blue. How could it be? After all these years, Blue would be long passed. This cat looked young and vibrant, her eyes bright and inquisitive.
The cat looked up at Lara, swished her tail again, then returned her gaze to the book. It was almost as if she were reading along with Darryl.
Lara’s knees felt wobbly. She wanted desperately to dash over and stroke the cat, to see if it was really her Blue. But Darryl was obviously on a roll, reading every word aloud with amazing ease, so she didn’t want to interrupt. She couldn’t help wondering, though, if her aunt had exaggerated the boy’s reading problem.
With a quick wave at Brooke to let her know the snacks had arrived, Lara set the tray on the floor. She backed quietly out of the room, pulling the door almost closed.
“Aunt Fran?” she asked, back in the kitchen. “Didn’t you say Darryl had trouble reading out loud?”
Her aunt looked up from the newspaper. “He does, yes. Why?”
“Well”—Lara scrubbed at her eyes with her fists—“he’s in there reading aloud at the level of a…a…high school senior! And there’s a Ragdoll cat sitting next to him. She looks exactly like my Blue. Remember Blue?”
An odd expression came over her aunt’s face. Slowly, she rose from her seat and grasped her cane. “Lara, I don’t have a Ragdoll cat,” she said quietly. “As for Darryl, he can barely read a simple sentence without stumbling over the words. Are you sure?”
Lara aimed a hand at the parlor. “See for yourself.”
For a long moment, Aunt Fran studied her niece’s face. Then she grabbed her cane and moved toward the parlor, taking every step with care.
Lara rubbed her eyes again. Maybe they’d played a trick on her. Could her stress over her aunt have pushed her senses into some crazy mode where she imagined things the way she wished them to be, not the way they were?
She was tired, that was for sure. The day already seemed twenty hours long, and it was only a little after four.
Thirsty, she went to the fridge and scanned the top shelf. She was pulling out a carton of OJ when Brooke paraded into the kitchen. The girl pulled out her earbuds, plunked her smartphone on the Formica table, and dropped into a chair. “Ugh, I hate algebra. If I have to look at it for one more second, I’ll… I’ll scream.”
Lara held up the juice carton, but Brooke shook her head. She poured herself a small glass and went over and joined Brooke. “So how did you get to be part of the classics book club? It seems like an eclectic group.”
“Eclectic.” Brooke grinned, displaying even white teeth. “I like that word. Someone, I think it was Mary—she’s the pretty one—posted a note in the library. I only joined because I’m going to have to read a lot of the classics once I’m in high school. I figured the others could help me if I got stuck on something.” She snorted. “Of course Glen is useless. He’s only there ’cuz he’s crushing on Mary. He’s, like, this weirdo who can never keep a job. Dora, she’s the older lady, is really nice, though. I just wish we could ditch Glen.”
“Well,” Lara said, not sure how to respond. It wasn’t her place to comment on a man she didn’t know. “So, what classic are you reading now? The book looked pretty thick.”
Brooke rolled her eyes at the ceiling. “The Pickwick Papers. The most utterly boring book ever written.”
“I’ve never read Pickwick,” Lara said. “What’s the premise?”
A striped, orange cat hopped onto Brooke’s lap. Brooke plopped a soft kiss onto its furry head.
“That’s Munster, I think,” Lara said, recalling her aunt’s earlier introduction to the resident felines.
“It is,” Brooke confirmed. “Anyway, it’s about a band of lame old dudes who roam all over England having these so-called adventures”—she made air quotes around the word—“and then when they get back, some ditzy landlady sues dumpy old Pickwick for not marrying her!”
Lara couldn’t help laughing at Brooke’s description of the classic Dickens novel. She’d never read it, so she couldn’t honestly critique it. “One of these days I’ll check it out,” Lara said. “Lately—in my rare spare time—I’ve been reading biographies of some of my favorite artists. Van Gogh, O’Keeffe—”
A light tap at the kitchen door interrupted her. Munster slipped off Brooke’s lap and padded out of the kitchen.
Before Lara could react, the door opened. A thirtysomething woman with short brunette hair and a bright smile peeked through the opening.
“Hey, Mom, you’re early,” Brooke said, without much enthusiasm.
The woman stepped into the kitchen and closed the door. “I am, a little, but—oh, hello there,” she said when she saw Lara.
Lara rose from her chair. “Hi. I’m Lara Caphart, Fran’s niece. You’re Brooke’s mom?”
The woman smiled, her resemblance to Darryl startling. “Yes, I’m Heather Weston. Pleased to meet you, Lara.” She extended her hand and Lara shook it briefly.
“Can I get you something?” Lara asked. “Water? Juice?”
“Thanks, but we have to be going. It’s food shopping day, remember?” Heather asked her daughter.
Brooke groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
“The kids hate helping me lug all the heavy stuff inside the house,” Heather explained. She focused her gaze on Brooke. “But we all have to pitch in these days, don’t we?”
With a glum expression, Brooke nodded. “I’ll get Darryl.” She scooted off her chair and went to fetch her brother. Moments later, Darryl trailed his sister into the kitchen.
“Mom, you should see how good I read