The Orphan and the Mouse (3 page)

Their mother feigned surprise. “Stories? Really? What do you want to hear about?”

“Papa!”

“All right,” said Mary. Gathering the three girls close, she wove a tale in which their papa donned white clothing and sailed on a boat in a storm. Neither Mary nor her daughters knew the exact meaning of sailing on a boat, but the auditors had brought back word of this exotic activity from the story of the mouse named Stuart Little, a great hero to the colony. Sailing, every mouse agreed, must be very exciting.

“More stories, Mama!” Matilda begged when Mary was done.

“Not now,” Mary said. “Now I must go.”

“Scurry safe, Mama, won't you?” said Margaret.

“I'll be back to tell you a story before bedtime.”

Because art thefts all proceeded according to protocol,
Mary had not needed detailed instructions in order to carry out her mission. Now she left her pups at the nursery, grabbed a dried cricket wing from the larder and munched on it for strength as she followed the main pathway through the foyer, turned left under the stairway, and trotted straight along the west wing corridor.

As she traveled, she was greeted by near and distant relations going about the nightly business of the colony. The first female art thief was something of a celebrity; some mice even moved aside to let her pass. Her better nature told her this was silly. She was just another hardworking mouse—no more important than a builder, a nurse, or a garbage manager.

Still, if she was honest with herself, she had to admit she kind of enjoyed her status. And really—didn't she deserve special treatment? Her job took boldness and skill. Not just any mouse could do it.

There was a border outpost where the west corridor intersected the wall between the boss's office and the girls' dormitory. The guard there was young, brawny, and sure of himself.

“Greetings, Auntie.” He dipped his snout.

“Nephew,” she greeted him in reply. The two mice did not know exactly how they were related, but all colony mice were family, and
Nephew, Niece, Auntie
, and
Uncle
were the usual appellations.

“No sign of the predator tonight?” Mary asked.

“The monitors report he is confined.”

“Very good,” said Mary.

“Scurry safe,” said the guard, and—with a flip of her tail—Mary left him.

From the outpost to her destination was a short distance, and soon Mary was peering out at an expanse of polished oak flooring, a rise of carpet, and, in the distance, a formidable wooden structure—the boss's desk.

There was nothing in her view to alarm her. The shelter's hushed nighttime sounds were peaceful. Still, Mary hesitated, watching, listening, and sniffing. Then she took a breath for courage, straightened her ears, and nosed her way into human territory.

Outside the wall, the smells—dust, human skin, the fur of the predator—were as expected. The temperature was cool, the spaciousness dizzying. Alternately dashing and pausing, Mary made her way across the smooth wood, then climbed up onto the rug, its thick pile tickling her belly.

The boss was unpopular among the mice for many reasons, among them her tidiness. With no snacks along the way to distract her, Mary moved swiftly, stopping only to catch her breath at the base of the desk before beginning her ascent.

Owing to powerful paws and lightweight bodies, mice are outstanding climbers, and Mary scaled the desk like a mountaineer, push-pulling her way upward using the tiny, almost invisible crevices in the dark wood. Upon achieving the plateau, she surveyed its landmarks—a leather blotter with cream-colored paper, an address book, a telephone, a fountain pen on a crystal stand, an inkwell, and an ivory-inlaid box in which the boss kept a key.

For Mary, the most important item on the desk was a round brass container approximately her own size. In its side was a
slot from which protruded the loose end of a roll of paper. This was the artwork Mary sought.

Recovered from her exertions, full of anticipation, Mary approached the container, tilted her head, and studied the new picture.
Leave it to Randolph to get the color wrong
, Mary thought.
This portrait is more pink than purple
. She would take time to appreciate it later. For now, she noticed only a narrow face, large eyes, a moustache, and a full head of hair.
A sad-looking fellow
, she thought, and wondered whether the picture would be popular. There was no predicting mouse-ly taste. Perhaps sad would be in vogue this year.

Either way, Mary's job was to return the artwork undamaged. So she tugged and gnawed, tugged and gnawed with great care, until she had separated five copies. After rewarding herself with a tasty lick of glue, she closed the pictures gently between her teeth, trotted to the edge of the desk, opened her mouth, and watched them flutter to the rug below.

For her own descent, Mary ran to the back of the black talking box, gripped its thick cord loosely in her paws, and slid—this part was fun!—back to the rug. There she collected the pictures, stacked them neatly for transport, and began her return journey to the colony, which she would enter via the room's south portal, a few mousetails east of the corridor doorway.

Up till this point, Mary's mission had played out according to plan.

But now it began to unravel.

Halfway across the room, she sensed a warning tingle in her whiskers, raised her snout, and caught the terrible scent of . . . the predator.

There followed simultaneously a rush of energy—
run!
—and a tide of tangled unhelpful thoughts:
What went wrong? How could the PWS have failed?

With an effort, Mary steadied herself. To survive, she must act coolly and sensibly, first dropping the pictures so she could move fast, second identifying a new escape route.

It took Mary only a few seconds to evaluate her options, but in that time there arose a complication: A full-grown human resident of the shelter, the one called Matron Polly, was approaching along the corridor.

Apparently, the predator heard Matron, too, because he looked up, arched his back, mewed beseechingly, and voiced the rumble typical of his species—the one that silly humans found endearing.

“What are you doing down here, worthless? Did the boss lock you out again?” Matron Polly bent down to stroke him, and the rumbling grew louder.

Bleccch
, thought Mary.
Sickening
. At the same time, she saw he was distracted, which created an opportunity for her. Over distance the predator—old as he was—had a speed advantage, making the portal from which she had come too far away. Her only chance was to race for the south portal, her original goal.

Mary ran as she had never run before, expecting when she reached the cracked molding at the base of the wall that she'd momentarily cross into the safety of mouse territory. Instead—
Oh, heartbreak
—her nose bumped a barrier blocking the opening from within.

Something had happened! She was closed out!

Mary suppressed her questions. She had one chance left, and it was a long shot. If she ran straight at the predator, his confusion might give her time to slip behind him and into the corridor. There was a backup portal there, only a few mousetails distant.

At first Mary's plan worked well. Apparently puzzled by the mouse's maneuver and encumbered by the human hand on his back, the predator tried to pounce and missed. Meanwhile, Matron Polly was too sleepy and slow either to see the soft gray interloper or to grasp the significance of the cat's behavior.

But then . . . disaster. This portal, too, was blocked, and now Mary was stranded with no escape from the malicious beast. Worst of all, she stood out in the open, in full view of the human.

Matron Polly shrieked. Down the hallway, a door opened. “What's the matter?”

Mary had just had time to recognize that this new voice belonged to a human pup when the predator pounced again. This time his weight knocked her forward at the same time that his claws ripped her shoulder. Barely a heartbeat later, she was upside down and staring into a merciless pink maw.

Mary had let down her dear, dear pups. Any second, sharp teeth would crunch her throat and they would be orphans . . . and she would be gone.

But then—just as the end seemed certain—Mary felt her stomach lurch and her body ascend. It was a moment before she realized what had happened, realized sharp teeth might have been preferable . . . for now her situation was truly terrifying. She was trapped in the dry, warm hand of a human pup.

“Scat now, Gallico, scat!” Caro McKay bumped the fat old thing with her foot. “The poor little mousie's terrified, and anyway he wouldn't be good for you, all raw the way he is. Now, mousie.” The soft gray creature, which had been trembling, began to settle down in her hand. “What are we going to do about those scratches?”

“How can you touch that nasty thing, Caro?” Matron Polly made a face. “You're too kindhearted, you are. Wait till I tell Mrs. George, she'll have the exterminator in right quick. Don't be a fool, now, go on and flush him! Then wash your hands with lye soap.”

Matron Polly was on the far side of middle age, doughy faced and pale except for spots of pink on her cheeks and the tip of her nose. She rarely smiled or frowned, but squinted constantly as if she were trying (and failing) to solve some conundrum.

Like all the intermediate girls, Caro knew better than to argue with Matron Polly. The more effective strategy was to agree, then do whatever you wanted. “Yes, ma'am. Good night, ma'am.”

“And good night to you, too, then.” Matron Polly took a
last look at the mouse, shivered, and turned to go back to her own room.

Caro cupped the mouse in her good hand, the left one, and followed Matron for a few steps before turning right into the girls' washroom. There she did not flush the mouse, but gripped it gently and cleaned its wounds with a damp paper towel.

“Mrs. George wouldn't like me nursing you, mousie. She can't abide mice, and if Matron remembers to tell her, she'll call the exterminator for sure. But I don't mind mice. You're just small creatures trying to get along, same as us kids.”

As always, it was awkward trying to work with her scarred right hand, but it wasn't as painful as it used to be. Caro's handwriting was getting better, too. That was what Miss Ragone said.

Soon the mouse's wounds were clean, and Caro took a new paper towel to dry the fur. Then, securing the animal gently in her grip, she held it up and looked into its shiny black eyes. Maybe she was partial, having rescued it, but the mouse did seem to be unusually pretty—nose delicately pointed, whiskers pure white, ears like pink half-moons.

Caro thought of a book Miss Ragone had read to them. In it, a mouse named Stuart Little was born to a human family, fell in love with a bird, sailed in a mouse-sized boat, and drove an invisible car.

Stuart could talk and had an extensive wardrobe. He was smart and thoughtful. Of course it was a made-up story,
but it stood to reason there was truth in it, too. Animals felt some things—hunger, for sure, and fear. Happiness? Maybe that, too.

“How is it being a mouse?” Caro asked.

The mouse tilted its head as if considering the question, then squeaked, making Caro laugh.

“Are you wondering what it's like to be a human? It's okay, I guess, for us kids that live here, at least. We've got enough to eat and clean clothes, but there was a war not very long ago, and people died, and over there in Europe and the Far East now there're those that don't have anything. Anyway, we don't have to worry about getting stomped or eaten the way you do—so that's something.”

The mouse shifted in Caro's hand, then flicked its tail against her fingers. Caro understood at once, or thought she did. “You have to get home, don't you? Maybe you've got children waiting. Be good to them if you do. I'm an orphan, mousie. Do you know what that is? A kid who doesn't have a mother or a father. This place is a home for orphans.”