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.

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.”