The Orphan and the Mouse (17 page)

Would they envy her?

Yes, of course. Just as she would envy any child who was getting a family of her own.

But they would also miss her. And she would miss them, too.

Thinking of it, she felt tears well in her eyes. They were her family now, or the closest thing she had to one. Would they write to her? Would they forget her? She would never forget them.

But still, she didn't say anything, and Barbara teased her for being lost in her own thoughts. Caro didn't respond, which caused the other intermediate girls to look at one another and shrug. It was no fun teasing if you didn't get a reaction.

Finally, it was lunchtime. The girls had ten minutes to wash before they filed into the dining room. Afterward, Caro could not have told what it was she ate; she had put the fork in her mouth mechanically, the same way she'd ironed the shirts, all the time waiting for the moment when she could talk to Jimmy.

The two friends met again in the front piano parlor and, all in a rush, she told him . . . and before she had even finished, he was shaking his head. “It's a trick—don't you see? It's just like Charlie. He disappeared and now you will, too!”

“What?” Caro felt dazed. “No, Mrs. George wouldn't—”

“Mrs. George wouldn't, Mrs. George wouldn't . . . nyah nyah nyah, Caro. You're wrong and she would. She's crooked and a liar and you don't see it!”

Caro had never seen Jimmy like this—near tears, he was so frustrated. Instinctively, she tried to comfort him, but that only made things worse. “Of course you don't want me to go. I don't want to leave you, either. Don't you think I'm scared, too?”

“Does the family know about your scars?” Jimmy asked cruelly.

Caro didn't answer right away. “I don't know. I didn't think to ask.”

It was Jimmy's turn to take a breath. “I'm sorry, Caro. I didn't mean that. I'm just trying to make you listen to me. You can't trust her. You can't. What's happened with Charlie proves it.”

Caro didn't know what to say. Jimmy was wrong; she was sure of that. He was reacting this way because he was envious. Any of the orphans would be.

Threatened by a feline, a rodent always flees in terror. This was the natural order; every creature knew it. So when the other night in the kitchen that mouse female had turned on Gallico and bared her teeth, it was entirely reasonable that he had been startled.

Not scared.

Never scared.

Merely startled.

That rodent had been lucky to escape with her life. The one in the boss's living room now would not be. It wasn't only anticipation of a bloody, tasty snack that excited Gallico. It was also his desire to exact revenge.

Moments before, the cat had been at his usual post on the boss's sofa when the sound of breaking glass awakened him. He rolled over. He looked up. What he saw astonished him. On the wood floor beneath the boss's writing desk was a small broken bottle, its liquid contents spilled to form a brilliant blue puddle in which a mouse seemed to be wading.

Stupid, clumsy rodent
, Gallico thought. Having knocked the bottle from the desk to the floor and broken it, she didn't know enough to stay out of the mess. When the boss returned
and saw the stain, the boss would be apoplectic. If Gallico did not want to be blamed, he had better be well out of the way by then.

But first, he had a murder to attend to.

Eyes never leaving his prey, the big cat positioned himself and waited patiently for her to come out into the open where he would have a clear shot. Meanwhile, the rodent—her paws sticky, wet and blue—marched boldly and deliberately across the rug toward the kitchen.

Gallico gathered his legs beneath him, swished his tail once, twice, and . . . wait a second.

From across the kitchen floor came a second rodent, this one a large male and at least as stupid as the first, squeaking for all the world as if he wanted to pose a challenge: “Look! Look at me! I'm over here!”

Trying to decide which mouse to dispose of first, Gallico mistimed his jump and overshot. Rather than landing his claws on the rodent's neck, he landed his belly there.

No matter
, thought Gallico.
Decapitated or smothered, you're dead either way
.

The mouse, however, had other ideas. She did not succumb but bit the cat—actually bit him on the belly!—causing Gallico to howl in pain and protest before rolling his big body away. All the time the second mouse, the male, continued his diversionary tactics.

Cartwheels! Somersaults! Flips!

If he was trying to get the cat's attention, he was succeeding—as
well as hastening his own demise. As the female continued her stately procession toward the big white box where the boss kept food, Gallico aimed at the male and prepared to strike . . . but another distraction presented itself, the sound of human footfalls on the stairs.

It was not the boss. It was Matron Polly, paying her afternoon visit.

Mrrreeeow!
Gallico's frustration was complete. He must abandon his prey or be blamed for the blue spillage, which by now had expanded beyond the desk. In fact, those infernal rodents had left blue tracks everywhere.

Moments later, safely hidden beneath the boss's bed, Gallico heard Matron Polly turn her key in the lock, heard her enter the apartment, heard her squeal.

She had seen the rodent!

Perhaps she would succeed where he had failed?

But she was much too slow. Gallico heard her moving about and muttering, “Oh—what a mess with all this ink! Well, one thing's for certain. Yours truly is not cleaning it up. Far as I know, things were spic, span, and tidy when last I was here.”

Polly's visits to the boss's apartment were predictable. Today, as usual, she went into the kitchen and opened the white box. But instead of closing it immediately, she uttered an inarticulate cry and then, “Ha! Serves you right, you little beast!” After that the door slammed, and she said, “That'll be a cold coffin for you.”

The remaining noises were familiar—chair creaking, bottle opening, the susurration of the bottle's contents. Then it was quiet but for Polly's single comment: “What a surprise that will be for Her Majesty—a tiny mouse in her Frigidaire, cold, stiff, and dead.”

The adults at the Cherry Street Children's Home had their share of secrets, most of them well known to the children.

For example, the children all knew—even Annabelle—that Matron Polly took a half-hour break each afternoon to drink a bottle of beer in Mrs. George's private apartment. They had seen her going up the stairs. They had seen her coming back. They had smelled the beer on her breath and seen the bottles lined up for return to the store. They knew she was more cheerful after her break than before, so after was a better time to ask for a favor.

The children also knew about the judge's visits. Among the older ones, these visits were a source of both fascination and disgust. Ned claimed to have stolen the spare key from the boss's desk, unlocked her apartment, sneaked inside, and tried a sip of the light brown liquid they drank—sherry, it was called. He said it tasted vile.

Finally, the children knew that Mrs. George left the home each day between three and six in the afternoon to run errands and pay calls. This last was not a secret, but it did mean that the grown-up population was reliably diminished by one during those hours—a fact that could sometimes be used to advantage.

Such was Jimmy's plan that afternoon. But if he and Caro were going to unlock the boss's apartment with the key the mice had left, he would need cooperation from the olders and the intermediates. To win them over, he had made a post-lunchtime circuit of the dormitories, the parlors, and the yard outside.

“Listen.” He had made his voice conspiratorial. “I got something I gotta do I can't talk about yet, but I'll fill you in later. It's in the boss's apartment. And the thing is, obviously, I need to be sure I'm not bothered.”

“You want us to warn you if the boss comes back early?” Ricky had asked.

“The boss or anybody that might happen to go upstairs. We're going in after Matron's done with her beer.”

“We?” Ricky had repeated.

“Me and Caro,” Jimmy said. Then, to forestall teasing, he added, “It's something secret. Caro found out about it.”

“What's the secret?” Ricky had asked.

“A
secret
,” Jimmy had said. He could only imagine the reaction if he told them he was following instructions from a mouse. “You'll help, right? Three bangs for the boss. One for anybody else.”

When Mr. and Mrs. C. Philips-Bodbetter installed the hot-water heating system, they had not considered its usefulness for emergency communications. The children, however, had figured this out immediately. Anytime anything metallic struck a radiator, it could be heard throughout the home—even in the boss's apartment.

Jimmy was good at talking, and by the time he was done, everyone had agreed to be on the lookout.

Shortly before four o'clock, just after Matron Polly had returned downstairs, Caro and Jimmy stood on the third-floor landing. With the old-fashioned key in her hand, Caro looked at Jimmy for courage. He nodded. She put the key into the lock, turned it, and pushed the door, which opened without a sound.

Neither Caro nor Jimmy had ever been inside Mrs. George's apartment. Of the orphans, only Ned had. The apartment was not large, and the door opened directly into the parlor, which was neat and cozy. Two doorways, one to the kitchen and one to the bedroom, led out of it. A writing desk stood to the left of the entry door. The sight of Gallico, napping on the chintz sofa, made the scene peaceful.

“How do we know what to do now?” Caro whispered.

“You don't have to whisper,” Jimmy said out loud. “There's nobody around.”

“I'd rather whisper,” said Caro.

It was Jimmy who spotted the broken inkwell. It had fallen onto the wood floor, splashing its contents there and on the rug, too. “Is that a clue?” Jimmy asked.

Caro grimaced. “It's a sticky mess, but look.” She pointed to a line of ink spots that traced a path toward the kitchen doorway.

Jimmy knelt to get a closer look and grinned. “Little paw prints,” he said, “left by your friend the mouse, I guess.” He
shook his head. “After today, nothing will ever surprise me again. Come on.”

Feeling like the intruder she was, Caro tiptoed across the room. Jimmy, in contrast, strolled with arms and legs swinging, claiming the territory for himself.

The paw prints became fainter the farther they moved from the overturned ink bottle. Then, in the middle of the kitchen floor, they became smeared and chaotic—as if the mouse had turned around and something . . .

Jimmy and Caro had the same thought at the same time and looked up at Gallico. Was he really sleeping so innocently? Or had he been watching them?

“Let's take a look,” said Jimmy.

The children turned toward the sofa. Gallico looked up and scrambled to get away—but too slowly to evade Jimmy's hands.
Mrrree-ow!

“Guilty conscience,” said Jimmy.

“Don't hurt him,” said Caro.

“He wouldn't've thought twice about hurting your mouse,” Jimmy said; then, with a deft motion, he flipped the cat over, revealing ink splotches on his belly.

Caro let loose with a squeal, then hastily covered her mouth and whispered, “Oh, you wicked cat, how could you?”

Jimmy shook his head. “I don't think he did. There isn't any blood, and the mouse tracks keep going. I think he tried, but the mouse escaped.”

Jimmy dropped Gallico onto the sofa, where he began furiously to wash his face.

Back in the kitchen, the children saw that the paw-print trail culminated at the base of the electric refrigerator.

Again, they looked at each other. Then Jimmy nodded, and Caro pulled the silver latch.