In Your Embrace by Amy Miles Page A

 The humidity is high as he feels his way around her Formica countertop and toward the swinging door that leads to the hall beyond.  He jumps at the feral howl of a cat as he backs onto its tail.  It hisses and swipes sharp claws against his jeans then races away.
    Although his home was built around the same time as Iris’, Timothy has done a great deal of remodeling since moving in , and the floor plans vary greatly now.
    Once in the hall, Timothy moves slowly, craning his head to look in each room.  Although he has been here several times before, he has never known exactly which of the three small bedrooms Iris uses for herself.  The first he comes to looks to be a spare bedroom.  A thick layer of dust gives the blue patchwork quilt adorning the bed a dingy gray look.  Six cats stretch and yawn atop the twin sized bed pushed back into a corner.
    He continues to call out as he picks his way through the house, careful to step over shattered picture frames and shards of broke n porcelain cats that once lined dozens of shelves in the hallway.  His concern grows with each unanswered call.  Iris may be getting up in years but she has never been belligerent or hard of hearing.
    “Mrs. Stevens?  Please answer me.”  He enters the living room and is surprised to see it relatively intact.  The faded olive green upholstered chairs and matching love seat still stand upright.  The glass coffee table stands in the middle of the room, ready to whack him in the shins if he makes a wrong move.  The peeling, brown veneer cabinet TV console sits like a hulking monster in the corner.
    As he turns to look into the dining room he notices the china cabinet on the far wall has toppled over.  Antique dishes Iris has collected over the years lie in thousands of tiny pieces against the floor.  Timothy is about to turn away when he spies one of the calico cats pacing back and forth, its tail straight in the air.
    Rushing forward, Timothy spies his neighbor’s frail hand sticking out from under the cabinet, nearly hidden in the pile of broken off-white plates.  He shoos the cat away.  “Mrs. Stevens?  Can you hear me?”
    A faint moan comes from under the cabinet.
    “Can you squeeze my hand?”  He reaches down and takes her hand in his.  Another moan follows but there is no movement in her fingers.  Either she is too weak to respond or she is wounded as seriously as he first feared.
    He leans back and surveys the cabinet, attempting to determine a way to maneuver the solid antique piece off Iris without causing further harm. As he kneels , he loops his fingers under the edge and tries to lift it straight off, but the cabinet barely moves.
    A cry of pain forces him to give up.  “I’m so sorry.  I’ll have this off you as soon as I can.”
    Spying an old-fashi oned wooden coat stand lying on the floor near the front door, Timothy races to grab it and shoves it in a small gap between the cabinet and the floor.   All I need is a little leverage.
    Careful to avoid Mrs. Stevens’ hand, he leans onto the wood and it lifts slowly.  His arms begin to quiver from the effort it takes to hold the piece of furniture, and he realizes that he can’t do this on his own.  If he tries to reach for her to pull her free, he will lose his grip and then risks sending the heavy load crashing back down on her.
    He looks around, frantic to find anything to shove beneath the cabinet. Hooking his foot through the leg of one of the overturned chairs, Timothy tries to maneuver it toward him.  A burning begins in his arms as he kicks at the chair, attempting to break off one of the legs to use as a prop, but all he manages to do is shove it out of reach.
    Grunting with effort, Timothy is forced to lower the cabinet.  His heart breaks at the sound of his neighbor’s cry of pain as the weight settles back on her.  “I need to get help.  I’ll be right back.  I promise!”
    Stumbling to his feet, he rushes to the front door and yanks it