Bless this Mouse (5 page)

Daylilies were delicious. And candles—there were many candles available—were filling, though not too tasty.

Hildegarde continued on, checking everyone. Millicent's babies were up and about now, with fur and wide eyes. "Keep them close and out of sight," she reminded Millicent sternly. "They haven't developed any sense yet." Millicent made a squeaky sound of assent and gathered her rambunctious mouselets, anchoring one with her paw on its tail.

Making the rounds, Hildegarde chuckled, noticing two brand-new traps baited with cheese: one in the ladies' room, one under the kitchen sink. The sexton was trying to catch the "one mouse" that had been seen. Using a thick straw wrenched from the sexton's broom, she nudged the cheese, springing the traps, and then called two of the brawnier mice to cart the cheddar pieces away and divvy them up quickly before the church day began.

Next, she made her way to the sacristy, her favorite place because of its beautiful priestly vestments: the crisp white surplices, the mossy greens and royal purples of the various robes, the narrow stoles with colorful embroidery, and the cincture, a kind of sash woven with gold thread. Hildegarde looked around, making certain everything was in place. This was her traditional afternoon napping place and she did not allow the other church mice here; young ones, especially, would have been too tempted to nibble on the array of magnificent borders and threads. It is a tendency of mice to pull and fray fabric; they mean no harm but are always looking for ways to enhance their nests. She had noticed, actually, that Millicent had woven some deep red threads into the nest of torn paper towels where she was raising her mouselets. Hildegarde suspected, recognizing the color, that the deep red had been pulled from a pew cushion. Many of the mice had used such a red, she knew, and if it was not overdone ... well, it could be overlooked. Church mice deserved some beauty in their lives. And a pew cushion ... well, there were rows and rows of them. Hildegarde had no particular feelings for pew cushions.

The sacristy, though? Absolutely forbidden. It was sacrosanct.

Hildegarde, older and self-disciplined, simply tidied things for Father Murphy. If a thread had been loosened from the hem of a vestment sleeve, she nibbled it carefully to neaten the border. If a surplice was poorly folded, she nudged it into a more orderly alignment. This morning, twitching her small nose, she looked around. Sunday mornings were the crucial ones. But today things seemed in order. She would check later, after the service, for crumbs. Though Father Murphy was very meticulous, the altar boys were careless—more than careless: sometimes actually malicious!—and there were occasionally tiny bits of communion wafers dropped. Once a Life Saver! Hildegarde always ate everything very reverently, even the Life Saver, which had been fuzzy with pocket lint and completely unappetizing.

WHOOOOOMMM! Hildegarde jumped. Trevor Fisoli had arrived and was testing the organ up in the loft. He was using the crescendo pedal, and starting with the loudest possible chord at full throttle. All right,
throttle
wasn't the right word. She knew that. But Hildegarde felt that the crescendo pedal was very much like the gas pedal of a car. (And yes, Hildegarde had been in a car. She had found herself trapped in a child's backpack once, when she'd been looking for cookies during Sunday School. It was a foolish mistake; she was embarrassed, remembering. It took her a week to make her way back to Saint Bartholemew's.) She pictured Trevor as the driver—sometimes like a little old lady hunched behind the wheel, going very cautiously, other times revving up like a racecar driver at the track. He always started his private rehearsal with that full-out sound. It was what kept her night nest, there under his right foot (if he only knew!), nicely flattened and firm.

Next he segued into a Bach fugue. Although she couldn't see him from the sacristy, Hildegarde pictured Trevor (often she had watched him from a hiding place behind a chair leg in the alto section), his fingers flying, his hair flying, too, as he moved his head rapturously. He should get his hair cut short, she thought. Mice were fortunate. Their fur grew, gray and sleek, to exactly the length that suited them. But humans! Well! They were left to their own devices and seemed to have no sense of the appropriate. Trevor's hair was shoulder-length and he didn't comb it often enough. Father Murphy's was short (and gray, which was pleasantly familiar), and he combed it frequently but oddly, to try to cover the balding top of his head.

The sound of the organ reminded her that she must hurry. Soon the choir members would arrive. Father Murphy would be donning his vestments and preparing the sacraments. Oops! There he was now, entering. She darted under the edge of the draperies and hid. She could see, peeking under the edge of the thick velvet (which was slightly frayed—she should nibble those borders and clean up that edge a bit), his black shoes on the dark blue carpet. The shoes walked around the room.

Then she could hear him calling to the sexton in the hall.

"Were you in the sacristy last night? I left something in here that seems to have disappeared."

"Nope. I vacuumed in there Thursday. Haven't been in since."

"Well, that's a mystery!" Fortunately Father Murphy's tone was mildly amused. Hildegarde cringed. He must be talking about the chocolate-covered cherry left beside the sink. She'd assumed he had dropped it and didn't know. Never dreamed he'd go looking for it! It wasn't even that good. Much too sweet and sticky. Now she was sorry she'd eaten it.

She waited, very quiet, while he made his preparations and donned his vestments for the service. In the distance she could hear people entering and taking seats in the pews. Usually, by now, Hildegarde was inside the wall and completely invisible. She shouldn't have dallied in the kitchen and ladies' room, but of course the cheese was a great find. As soon as Father Murphy left the sacristy to join the altar boys and crucifer and choir lining up in the narthex for the processional hymn, she'd make her escape and take up her Sunday morning duties with her own population. There! He was going now. She took advantage of the moment as the door closed behind him. She scampered across the carpet and entered the wall where there was an opening for the pipes to the sacristy sink.

She cleared her throat and murmured the words under her breath, preparing. "
We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts,
" she murmured. Down the wiring she scrambled, leveling off on the floor below. She scurried along toward the furnace room, murmuring still. The echo was nice here, she thought. "
We have left undone those things which we ought to have done and we have done those things which we ought not to have done...
" Okay. She was in good voice now.

Hastily she scurried to the spot where, perched on the furnace oil tank (somehow there was a good reverberation there), she could best be heard by her own congregation.

No human knew this, of course. But each week Hildegarde led all the church mice in confession. And they sang.

Father Murphy had, as usual, spilled a little wine in the sacristy. Hildegarde didn't touch the stuff herself, but Roderick liked a nip now and then. She summoned him after things were closed up and the church was empty. Then she watched while he cleaned the counter, licking the wine tidily. She had just overheard very bad news, and he would be the first to know about it.

"There," Roderick said. He sat up, balancing himself with his tail, and looked around. He hiccuped. It didn't take much wine to make Roderick a little tipsy. "Any more?" he asked hopefully. "Sometimes he dribbles some on the floor. I could get it before it soaks in."

They both peered down and examined the carpet from where they were perched. "Just old stains," Hildegarde said. "Nothing worth licking."

"I guess not." Roderick looked a little dejected. He always hoped for a major spill. But Father Murphy was pretty careful with the wine. "Well, I think we're finished up in here, then." He giggled a little. "Thank you, Hilly. You're a dear."

She glared at him—she hated being called by that nickname—but he didn't notice. "Time for a nap!" he announced, with another small hiccup.

"Wait. I have news."

"News?" Roderick hopped down to a low shelf. "Don't tell me Millicent's expecting again. Puhleeze!"

"No, no, it's not that." Hildegarde jumped down and sat beside him on the shelf. She noticed a satin ribbon extending from the edge of a prayer book. Satin was tasty, and she was tempted. But she let it go. "We've been so vigilant about Millicent's babies," she said, "that I fear we have not been sufficiently attentive to some others."

"Others?" Roderick asked.

"Vivian's litter," Hildegarde said.

"
Them?
Awful bunch. Poorly behaved." Roderick gave an exasperated snort.

"Indeed. And Vivian allowed them to run loose. All around the sanctuary. They played hide-and-seek among the kneelers. She said they'd been cooped up and needed some exercise."

"When?"

"Just before the service. I was in the kitchen at the time."

"Were they seen?"

Hildegarde nodded. "The entire Altar Guild."

"Oh, no! Was there shrieking? And eeks?"

"Apparently. I didn't hear it. Others did. I was dealing with the traps, getting the cheese extricated."

"Oh, and thank you for that, dear," Roderick said. "It was a lovely Vermont cheddar."

"Yes, I know. I had a taste. At any rate, the Altar Guild saw several of Vivian's offspring—"