The Orphan and the Mouse (8 page)

Emotionally exhausted, still suffering the consequences of the predator's attack, Mary Mouse slept hard that day and awoke with a start.

What time was it? Why had no one waked her? She was in her own familiar nest, but it was so quiet, and the comforting mousy aroma seemed thin.

Then she remembered. It was dusk, judging from the quality of light in the pathway outside, and she was alone. Every mouse she'd ever known was gone.

Mary indulged herself with a sigh, thinking of all she had lost and how unfair it was.

Then she got up, groomed her ears and paws, and trotted for breakfast to the nearest larder, where she beheld an awesome sight: morsels of every taste, color, and texture—salty, sweet and sour, crunchy, tender and chewy—all arranged in neat piles, and all for Mary.

“Why, of course,” she said aloud. “They didn't have a way to carry the comestibles.”

Gratefully, Mary inhaled the stale scent. It wasn't the same as companionship, but it was something.

Then she set about choosing her meal—a bit of salmon loaf,
half a lima bean, and a crumb each from a graham cracker and a gingersnap. When she wiped her whiskers, she was stuffed.

“But I mustn't always have two desserts,” she told herself. “If there's any hope of my avoiding the exterminator, I have spying to do. And spying means climbing.”

Every Cherry Street mouse knew that the best time for spying was in the evening around eight o'clock. That was when the boss's mate drove his automobile to the shelter, parked on the street, let himself in through the front door, climbed the stairs, and paid a visit during which he and the boss conversed while sipping amber-colored liquid.

The boss was not typically talkative, but during these conversations she had revealed many secrets useful to mice. A single mouse could not monitor the humans as thoroughly as a whole network of spies, so Mary was determined to take advantage of these nightly opportunities.

As far as mice are concerned, plumbing exists for the convenience of mice. Now Mary set out to climb the cold-water pipe to the boss's apartment, a full 180 mousetails distant. Climbing at her usual rate of twenty mousetails per minute (mpm), she ought to be there before the judge arrived.

But she hadn't considered her injured shoulder. It was still painful, and by the time she reached the second floor, she was breathless. She paused to recover herself and stretch, then commenced to climb again—never looking down.

Not for nothing do mice have big ears. It was the echo of
the scratch of paws on pipes that told Mary she'd achieved her goal. A moment later, she heard two distinct human voices. Judge Mewhinney—the boss's mate—had already arrived.

Mary dropped off the pipe, assessed her options and decided to squeezed through a hole that led to a cupboard. There she was in luck. The cupboard doors did not close tightly, and through the gap, she peered across the smooth floor of what appeared to be a kitchen and into the lighted parlor.

Mary sniffed, inhaling the scents of soap, floor wax, dust . . . and smoke from the judge's cigar. Like all mice, Mary hated and feared smoke. It was all she could do not to cough and attract the attention of the predator. She could smell him as well, and a fit of trembling assailed her. With a great effort of will, she mastered it. She had to spy if she was going to avoid the exterminator. She would be careful. She would stay out of sight. The predator would never know she was there.

The boss was speaking.

“. . . Polly's associate at the lying-in hospital . . . a blond male born today.”

“And the mother?” Judge Mewhinney asked.

“Unwed,” said the boss.

Judge Mewhinney's voice conveyed his smile. “A bit of luck, then. But are you prepared to act so quickly?”

“If the girl doesn't cooperate, I'll have to have a talk with our friend the sheriff,” said Mrs. George. “And Polly may
have to manage without a nurse. But on the whole, yes. I am prepared.”

“What about Miss Grahame?” asked the judge.

“I've spoken to her private secretary. She seems to think a larger hotel suite and some baby formula are all that's required.”

“So, smooth sailing, then.” The judge puffed on his cigar, filling the small space with the acrid smell of smoke.

“I hope so,” said Mrs. George, “but I don't want to keep the child a moment longer than we have to. It's not only Polly. I don't like what I'm reading about the sheriff being challenged. Someone new might take a hard look at our operation.”

“And put us out of business?” said the judge.

After that, the boss must have turned her head, because her words were muffled. Mary became fretful. For all she knew, the boss was naming the date for the exterminator! She had to be close enough to hear.

Silently, Mary squeezed through the gap between the doors, scurried across the linoleum, and hid beneath the cupboards' overhang. From there, she could see the boss's stockings and high heels, one of the judge's shiny brown shoes, and the back of his armchair.

Mary tried to concentrate on the conversation, but the word
exterminator
did not come up, and she was distracted by the stuffing in the armchair. It looked to be of excellent quality. Perhaps she should establish a winter home for herself here? It was warmer at high elevations.

The judge's feet shifted, recapturing Mary's attention. “Miss Grahame by all accounts is wealthy. How much this time?” he asked.

“Leave that to me,” said Mrs. George.

“Helen, may I remind you I run a considerable risk?”

The boss's voice softened. “We both run a risk, my dear. And your contribution is invaluable. Still, it's better if you don't know every detail. What if you were questioned? With that new bunch trying to take over City Hall—”

“They wouldn't question
me
. Would they?” When his voice squeaked, the judge sounded almost like a mouse.

“Surely not. But it's better to be safe than sorry.”

Still nothing about an exterminator, and Mary's mind had drifted back to the armchair stuffing and her winter home when all at once she realized that the judge had taken another puff on his cigar, and the smoke was tickling her throat, and she must retreat lest she make a noise to attract attention. . . .

She started to turn but was too late. A single step, and the worst happened: Mary coughed.

In Gallico's dream, he was tormenting the twitching tail of a vanquished lizard. It was lovely, which was why he felt more than the usual resentment when the rodent's sneeze awakened him.

The humans, oblivious to the impending drama continued their chatter. Really, it was amazing that humans ever accomplished anything, given their minimal sensory abilities. By rights, felines should run the world, with canine slaves providing muscle.

True to his species, Gallico was slow to rouse, but once on his feet moved quickly. In an instant, he was crouched and taking aim.
Stupid rodent
, he thought.
Does she think I can't see her there?

Behind him, the boss said, “What is that cat up to, do you think?”

And the judge answered, “He's got his eye on something.”

Gallico set his body and sprang, but the rodent made a last-second course adjustment and the cat came up a half claw short.

Now Gallico was mad. The boss had scolded him for failing to kill that female the other night—as if interference by a human kitten had somehow been his fault. The boss had also accused him of being lazy, which was ludicrous. How could
she expect him to maintain his good looks without the requisite beauty sleep?

This time, Gallico would not fail. This time, no human kitten would come to the rescue. This time the rodent was on her own.

Disoriented by fear and surprise, Mary sped across the floor and arrived at the wrong cupboard, one whose doors closed tightly enough that she could not slip between them. The predator was close now, so close she could smell its bloodthirsty breath even over the cigar smoke.

I'm done for
, she thought.
No one cares about an exile. No one will even know I'm gone
.

But then . . . an image flashed in her mind, the hero Stuart Little facing down the wicked white feline, Snowbell. Miss Ragone had shown the picture to the children when she read the book aloud, and the mice auditors had seen it, too, and been impressed.

Stuart Little had overcome his fear. Stuart Little had not given up.

I won't, either
, Mary thought.
The stupid beast's sheer size might prove decisive, but I will go down fighting
.

Emboldened, Mary wheeled to confront the predator head-on. She did not cower but placed her paws solidly, bared her not-inconsequential teeth, and flexed her muscles. Prepared to jump at the big brute's throat, she let out a ferocious squeak and—what do you know?—the furry coward flinched.

In the parlor, shoes shifted. “What was that noise? What's that cat up to?”

The human speech diverted the predator's attention, and Mary ran for it. This time she located the cupboard she wanted, squeezed between the doors, and arrived safe, enclosed, and in the dark—her heart pounding.

“Blast!” the boss said.

“More mice?” the judge asked.

And that was the last Mary heard before she grasped the cold-water pipe and, aided by gravity, sped down, down, down to mouse territory on the ground floor.

Mary couldn't exactly call her first spy mission successful.

She had learned nothing important.

She had nearly been eaten.

And while she wasn't sure the boss had seen her, the boss had certainly suspected her presence. If anything, extermination was more likely than ever now.

Mary Mouse was discouraged and exhausted. And the worst part was, she had to spy again the following day—every day—if she was to protect herself. Somehow she would have to find a way to hear what was said while steering clear of the predator.