Citizen Insane - By Karen Cantwell Page 0,2

but no one was in the casa. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought we were in a low-budget zombie movie.

Now, I’m a true believer that life imitates art, and I love the art of film. That’s why, when in doubt, I imitate the movies. This particular situation called for a little maneuver from one of my all time favorites, Moonstruck. Grabbing Bunny’s face with both hands, I looked straight into her eerie, zombie eyes, and pulled out an impressive Cher impression. “Snapoutuvit!” I yelled.

Bingo! Like magic, Bunny’s face changed and I knew she finally recognized me. Always trust a good screenwriter to get you out of a sticky situation.

“Barb?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s Barb. Listen, Bunny, you need to go home. We’ve got an appointment for pedicures.”

“Barb!” Roz’s forehead was all scrunched-up and screaming disapproval. She moved in to take control.

“Bunny,” she said in a soothing, motherly voice, “What happened?”

Ah geez. She’d gone and done it. Not only was I feeling guiltier than the dog that ate the birthday cake, but I was fairly sure the very saintly and patient Roz was going to make us late for our Sweet Tangerine Spice Ultra-Ultimate Pedicures. Yes, she was probably doing the right thing, and yes, she was a wonderful person for it, but truth be told, I just didn’t care for Bunny Bergen.

First, there was her name. Come on. Bunny? What grown woman allows herself to be called Bunny? Supposedly, her real name was Bertha. Okay, not so good, but really—isn’t Bert or Bertie better than Bunny? Eesh.

Then there was her obsequious and always-happy attitude, not to mention the fact that she had the body of a super-model. No single person should be that happy and stunning to boot, especially after giving birth twice. It threw off the balance of nature.

Finally, there was the issue of her questionable source of income. She was a Marrier—she married then made her money from the subsequent divorces. No one knew for sure, but it had been estimated that she had four divorces under her diamond-studded Gucci belt. Supposedly she had more lawyers than Joan Rivers had plastic surgeons.

So, yes, I had trouble working up enough sympathy to justify missing my special treat-of-the-year. It was, after all, a Sweet Tangerine Spice Ultra-Ultimate Pedicure. Ultra-Ultimate.

Problem was, Roz was making me look bad. Rubbing Bunny on the back, talking in soothing tones. Being nice. I finally decided I had no alternative other than to join Roz and see the Bunny rescue to the end.

“Bunny?” Roz was asking, “Do you know where you are?”

Bunny did a visual scan of the area, then nodded and sniffed a little. “This is Barb’s house, right?”

“Yeah, it’s my house. That’s good, we’re making progress,” I said, still having trouble feeling the moment. “What’s your problem?”

Roz shot me a glare fit to kill.

I reworded the question. “I mean, are you okay?”

“I . . . hit a bunny,” she whispered after a moment of silence, as if she was sharing a terrible secret.

“A rabbit?” Roz whispered back. “You hit a rabbit?”

Bunny nodded and tears started rolling down her cheeks.

I’m a sucker for tears, and I had to admit, this poor woman was starting to get to me. “How?” I asked.

“With my car.”

I looked around. You couldn’t miss it—brand spanking new, gold Jaguar convertible. No Jag in my driveway or on the street.

“Where?” I asked.

The Bunn-ster went all glassy on us again. I threw my arms in the air, exasperated. Roz took over. She moved closer and attempted to put an arm around Bunny’s shoulders, which wasn’t easy, since Bunny was about seven inches taller than her. The whole thing was just too awkward, so she eventually settled for patting Bunny lightly on the lower back.

“Bunny?” Roz’s tone was far calmer and more comforting than mine. “Bunny? Where did you hit the bunny?”

“I was driving home. I turned into my driveway then it was just there. Like out of nowhere. And there was nothing I could do. I hit the bunny.”

Bunny hit a bunny. See? This is what I mean. How can a person take such a scenario seriously? People with animal names risk this ridiculous sort of redundancy, that’s all I’m saying.

“How did you end up here?” Roz asked.

“I walked through the woods,” she continued. “I needed Howard. Is he here?”

Howard? My blood started to boil. Why did she want my husband? Wasn’t 911 good enough for her?

First that blond bimbo in the restaurant last night, now Bunny Bergen. It seemed that