The Orphan and the Mouse (14 page)

“I'm sure Mr. Philips-Bodbetter would appreciate it if you could alter your schedule,” said Mrs. George.

“Mr. Philips-Bodbetter?” The secretary was obviously
impressed. “Well, in that case . . . Please wait one minute. . . . Perhaps this Saturday?”

“Saturday morning is fine,” said Mrs. George. “Nine o'clock.”

Without saying good-bye, she returned the receiver to its cradle.

Polly did not mask her dismay. “The exterminator's coming Saturday? But that hardly gives us time to make arrangements for the children.”

Mrs. George held up a torn scrap of paper. “I found this on the floor clear across the room.” She indicated a spot by the baseboard. “And would you look at this?” She held up her newspaper, which had a hole in the back.

Polly frowned. “What would mice want with newspaper, ma'am?”

“I'm sure I don't know what mice want,” said Mrs. George, “but their vile little tooth-marks are everywhere. So, while I apologize for the short notice, it can't be helped. Now”—she sat down and smoothed her hair—“while you see that the girls are getting on with their chores, Carolyn and I will have a little chat.”

Polly said, “Yes, ma'am,” but Mrs. George could see by the woman's squint—more pronounced than usual—and by her heightened color that she was unhappy. Would she make trouble? She never had before, and she was well compensated for her services. Mrs. George even kept bottles of beer for her in the refrigerator of her private apartment, allowed her to
take her break from the children there each afternoon. Surely her generosity would count for something.

And Polly didn't like mice any more than Mrs. George did.

“Sit down, dear,” Mrs. George said to Carolyn after the matron had left. “I'm sorry there was no chance for you to say good-bye to the infant. What was it you called him? Charlie?”

“It was my father's name,” said Carolyn.

Mrs. George felt a pang that surprised her. Surely, she wasn't thinking of her own father? “Ah. Well, this little boy has been adopted by a very fine mother . . . that is, family. And now he will have every advantage. He's quite lucky.”

“But where is he?” Carolyn asked. “And why did he have to leave so quickly?”

It wasn't like Carolyn to ask difficult questions. “You've been here long enough to know how it is in matters of adoption, Carolyn,” said Mrs. George. “I can't give out any information, not even to you. Some people blame an orphan for his unlucky origins, and we would never want any of our children to carry that shame.”

Carolyn persisted. “Mrs. George,” she asked, “who brought Charlie to the home?”

Mrs. George opened the top drawer of her desk to signal that their interview was over. “The police did, dear. I already explained. Now, I'm sure Matron Polly needs—”

“Because something's confusing me,” Carolyn went on. “Charlie had marks from a forceps on his head. I know that's what the marks were. I've seen them before.”

Mrs. George closed her desk drawer but didn't look up.
Oh, dear
.

“And you said,” Carolyn continued, “that he was abandoned at the police station. But I don't see how that can be if he was delivered with forceps by a doctor. Mothers who deliver in hospitals don't abandon their babies. There's a record of the birth, so they'd be caught. The only mothers who drop off their babies that way are ones who deliver babies by themselves at home, or . . . or someplace else.”

Mrs. George's thoughts were racing, but she spoke slowly. “For a child your age, you know quite a lot about a very delicate subject.”

“We all do, ma'am,” Carolyn said. “I'm sorry if it's not right for children to know, but we can't help it.”

Mrs. George sighed. “I suppose not. Well, in this case, perhaps there was some mistake in the story the police officer told me.”

“That must be it,” Carolyn said thoughtfully, but she did not sound convinced. “Did you talk to Mr. Kittaning?”

“Not necessary,” said Mrs. George.

“Because he might know more about where—” Carolyn continued, but Mrs. George had had enough.

“Carolyn!” She spoke more sharply than she intended. “The infant is gone. Your speculation is not helpful. Now, please. I have work to do.”

Andrew and Mary had left the second floor for the boss's office at the same time Matron Polly and Caro did, but their route was longer and their legs shorter. By the time they arrived at the baseboard portal, Matron Polly was leaving.

Rapt, the two mice watched the boss and Caro conversing. They did not understand everything. But they saw that Caro, Mary's rescuer, was upset and suspicious about the newborn pup's disappearance. And they saw that the boss was angry and disdainful.

“I think the boss is hateful!” Mary told Andrew after Caro had been dismissed.

“She is,” said Andrew.

“We need to tell Caro what we know,” said Mary.

“Do we?” Andrew was surprised.

Mary sat back on her haunches. “I know Caro's merely human, but I feel the need to help her. I'm not sure why. Because my pups are gone? Because I can't do anything for them anymore?”

Andrew spoke gently. “But humans despise us, Mary. If we mice start helping them, where will it lead? Will we soon be helping predators?”

Mary didn't answer right away, and Andrew thought she had seen reason. Then she asked, “Have you ever seen the blue lady?”

Oh dear
, thought Andrew.
Perhaps the stress has caused mental unbalance. Better to humor her
.

“O'Brien's picture?” he answered carefully. “Yes, there is a copy in the chief director's collection.”

Mary turned, then looked back over her shoulder. “Are you coming?”

The main body of Andrew's collection was housed in an annex of his nest that could only be reached through a length of abandoned sewer pipe. Like the boss's office it was on the shelter's ground floor. By now, the two mice had been awake many hours past their bedtime, but Mary kept up a brisk place, and soon they were descending through the pipe.

Both Mary and Andrew had viewed the chief director's collection before. Still, when they emerged from the pipe's dark confines into the grand expanse, they were dazzled anew by the sight. So many pictures! So much color! All this beauty in one place was more than any mouse could absorb.

There were many portraits among the pictures. Prized for its historic significance, O'Brien's blue lady was displayed by itself on a clean sheet of corrugated cardboard.

“She's not bad-looking for a human,” said Andrew as he regarded her.

“Does that writing spell out her name?” Mary used the tip of her tail to indicate the letters.

“ ‘Louisa May Alcott,' ” Andrew read. “I wonder who she was.”

“That's it!”
Mary squeaked so loudly that Andrew had to step back and rub his ears. “
Wonder
is precisely the point. Do you see?”

“Uh . . . no,” said Andrew.

Mary sighed. “It's hard to explain, but I will try. Here in our actual lives, we mice can only ever see so much. But pictures enlarge the view, reveal the possibility of worlds we never suspected. Even the pictures that aren't beautiful make us curious, they make us
wonder
.

“
Are you with me so far?”

Andrew scratched his ear. “I guess.”

“And when Caro asked me about being a mouse,” Mary went on, “she did the same thing. She
wondered
.”

“Ah,” said Andrew, still puzzled but trying gamely to penetrate the mysteries of this female's mind. “So you're saying, if I understand you correctly, that you like the human pup because she rescued you
and
because you think she looks at pictures.”

“I like her because she looked at
me
,” said Mary, “and she tried to understand what being me is like.”

Andrew couldn't help it, he laughed. “
Ha ha ha ha ha!
All right, Mary Mouse, I think I'm beginning to follow you. You're not actually crazy. You're just in the grip of a big idea. I've been there myself, which is why I will help you. But what exactly is the plan?”

Mary thumped her forepaws in frustration. “I don't know! And I can't possibly”—she yawned—“think about it now. I can barely keep my eyes open.”

After Carolyn had gone, Mrs. George closed the top drawer of her desk, leaned back in her chair, and looked out the window. On full display were summer's charms, blue sky, cotton-ball clouds, a red-breasted robin on a telephone wire.

But Mrs. George saw only the content of her soul, and it was cold and black.

Pretty Helen Loviscky was the oldest of six children and the apple of her father's eye. He was fun-loving and handsome . . . till the coal dust robbed him of his health. In pain and despair, he drank. One winter night, coming home after a spree, he slid on a patch of ice, fell and hit his head. He never woke up.

Helen was devastated, but family demands left her no time to indulge in grief. She quit school to take care of her siblings and the house while her mother went out to work, cleaning for rich people and bringing home stories about their beautiful possessions and their beautiful lives, kindling envy in the heart of an eldest daughter who wore ragged clothes and cried herself to sleep from exhaustion.

In a way, Carolyn McKay had reminded Mrs. George of herself. Both were bereft after the loss of a parent, both
determined to make the world right again through sheer effort of will. In their minds, any mistake was disastrous—caused the cosmos to spin out of control. Even now, this anxious and single-minded determination was Mrs. George's emotional reality. Because of it, she understood Carolyn . . . and how to manipulate her.

But now obedient, reliable, responsible Carolyn was about to betray her. The child did not realize it herself yet, but it was true. Assaulted by the child's own powers of reason and observation, the myth of the good Mrs. George would melt away, and when it did, Carolyn would communicate her suspicions to others, perhaps even to Frank Kittaning.

Mrs. George didn't like the deed she was contemplating. It was distasteful and, worse yet, a risk. But it was safer than allowing Carolyn to remain at Cherry Street. Mrs. George reminded herself that she hadn't achieved her place in the world by succumbing to sentiment. She had always done what she needed to do to advance and protect her own interests, and she would do so now.

Mrs. George looked away from the window and toward her desk. Then she picked up the telephone and dialed 0.

“Operator?” she said shortly. “I want to place a long-distance call.”

Rather than sleeping in her own nest every day, Mary had been trying out new ones to see how they suited her, With the colony gone, there were plenty to choose from. That day's sleeping quarters once had been occupied by a first-generation daughter of Randolph's. Mary had been attracted by the fluffy bedding. On awakening, she noticed there was something else to appreciate: a picture of a full-grown human female wearing a red scarf around the fur on her head. The female's paw was upraised to show off the muscles of her foreleg; she looked directly at the viewer; her expression was resolute.