Uncle Brucker the Rat Killer

by Leslie Peter Wulff

  “Keep your hands off the phone and stay out of the kitchen,” he said. “And tell your friends don’t call. Third ring I gotta answer or the the General will hang up.”

  Friday. He moped around the house all morning, moving from room to room and chair to chair. He refused to eat his vitamin cereal and he didn’t want lunch. He drank only one beer and sat in front of the TV for a long time with the empty can in his hand. All day long he looked like he just got out of bed. His eyes were puffy. His hair was a squall.

  Friday night. He sat in the kitchen, telephone on the table, waiting for the goddamn phone call. He had no appetite for the franks and beans I cooked for him. He read the paper twice, filled out eight words in the crossword puzzle, which I thought was pretty good. I got two more. Later I ate the beans. Saturday morning, still no phone call. I got up around ten and found him hunched over the phone at the kitchen table. He had stayed up most of the night but he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

  “You ain’t gonna last, Unc,” I told him.

  “You wanna bet?” he said.

  “What’s the point in bettin’? You won’t be around to pay up.”

  At eleven o’clock the phone rang.

  “That ain’t the call,” he said after only one ring.

  I don’t know how he knew it, but he was right.

  He handed me the phone. It was Leroy. I told him no calls until tomorrow, only official calls today, and I hung up.

  At one o’clock the call finally came through. The phone rang like a bank alarm, so loud I jumped back. Uncle Brucker fell back too. He missed the first ring, then he grabbed the phone like it was trying to escape and put it to his ear.

  “Good morning, General!” said Uncle Brucker, standing stiff at attention. “Yes, sir. Certainly, General, sir. You can count on me, sir. I always volunteer. That way you know you got an army without even askin’.”

  He took the phone into the hall and I couldn’t hear him any more.

  He hung up and came back.

  “That was General Hardesty on the phone,” he said. “He promoted me to Top Man In The Field, and he personally volunteered for a special assignment, and you know I can’t talk about it until it’s over. All I can say is what everybody already knows. Uprisin’ Number Three is in progress and me and the army are goin’ on the offensive pretty damn soon. Got my squad cummin’ over tonight for orientation. Tomorrow mornin’, they’re leavin’ with or without me. It’s up to you to give me the go-ahead. No go-ahead, I stay home with you. Think about it while I’m packin’ up.”

  Upstairs in the bedroom, he went through his sock drawer and chose only the best. He found three new-looking tee-shirts and some clean underwear too, and he stuffed them in his pack.

  Then he emptied his wallet on the dresser and put back what was important to him. That included an old matchbook with the phone number for Dotty D in Buckston, scraps of paper with notes for True Rat Stories, and around forty dollars in cash.

  “I’ll be gone two weeks, maybe more,” he said. “You’ll be on your own. Think you can handle it? Or do I have to unpack?”

  “But I wanna go with you. I’m your right hand man, ain’t I?” I said.

  “That’s a position the army don’t make a provision for,” he said. He found the keys to the Eagle and he dropped them in a bowl on top of the dresser just in case I needed them.

  “OK. You got the go-ahead,” I said.

  “How’s the rat list goin’?”

  “I started a new page.”

  “Keep it neat. The Government asks for it, we gotta turn it in.”

  “I ain’t gonna keep it from them,” I said.

  Next he went to his closet and took out a .22 rifle wrapped in a fuzzy gray cloth. He found two extra clips in the bottom of the closet, and a scope too. He unfolded the stock, screwed in the scope, locked in the clip, and it was a U.S. Army-Issue Rat Rifle Type B.

  He thumbed a bullet out of the spare clip and held it in his hand.

  “For me?” I said.

  “It’s a good luck bullet,” he said. “Just don’t keep it in the pocket with the holes.”

  “Don’t worry, I learned my lesson with the arrowhead.”

  “And don’t shoot it, or you’ll be out a luck.”

  28

  Uncle Brucker found a beat-up old backpack that got chewed up during the Uprising. It was hidden behind some boxes on the stairway to the attic. He took it down and put it on the kitchen table and unzipped it. He took out an old shopping bag.

  I knew something important was in the grocery bag by his wait-until-you-see-this smile.

  “What’s in the bag?” I asked.

  “Oh, nuthin’.”

  “Gotta be somethin’.”

  “It’s just an old rat TV set.”

  “A rat TV? Like the commanders use?”

  “The very same. I been savin’ it for someone just like you.”

  He carefully took the TV out of the bag. He cleared off the beer cans and he placed it on the kitchen table. One dial on each end, two speakers, scratched up plastic, fourteen-inch screen. The dial on the right didn’t work and the rats ate all the O’s off the brand name. Made by M T R LA.

  “Looks just like an ordinary old TV set to me,” I said.

  “It’s rat made.”

  “The controls are busted.”

  “Rats know how to use it.”

  “The wire ain’t got no plug on it.”

  “It’s got rat markins,” he said.

  “Where are the markins?”

  “Right there.”

  “Where?”

  “And on the back.”

  29

  At 6:30 we heard it.

  Scratch-Scratch Knock! Scratch Knock-Knock!

  Across the table from me he let out a breath of air and put his head in his hands. But it was different from how it sounds, more like his hands reached up and grabbed his head without permission and now his head was stuck there and didn’t know why.

  Scratch-Scratch Knock! Scratch Knock-Knock!

  “Don’t tell me I gotta go out and wrestle that damn rat now,” he said.

  30

  Uncle Brucker told me stay out of their way and don’t ask any questions.

  “These people have an agenda,” he said. “When they want to say somethin’, they’ll say it. When they don’t, good luck. Now go take out the garbage and wait in the barn until you get the all-clear.”

  It was already five-fifteen. His squad was scheduled to arrive at six, but five-thirty wouldn’t be unusual because his squad was prompt. Each squad member had to enter the house a different way to avoid suspicion. That meant some of them had to climb in through the windows. And don’t park in the driveway, park down the road, then walk back to the house.

  I carried out the garbage and went to the far side of the barn where Grandpa Thompson used to feed his pigs. It wasn’t originally part of the barn, it was a nailed-on shed Grandpa Thompson built for pigs only. Inside, a long wooden trough, an old wicker-seat chair, and three busted windows with a view of the yard. On the wall above the trough, boards with chalk names of pigs: Butch, Lilly, Natty, Fran.

  Three boards at the far end had no names on them.

  I sat on the wicker seat in the pig shed and wondered about the missing pig names. Maybe one pig was Thor. I’d name my best pig Dynamite. There was some other stuff in the shed but I don’t feel like describing it. I’d rather be thinking up pig names. Thor and Dynamite and Mick.

  Here I am in my night fort, protecting the old house from marauding rats. Put rifles in the windows, put a cannon through the door. You can’t maraud around here.

  Sometime later I heard the back door swing open. Uncle Brucker walked across the driveway and stopped to pee on the azalea. He had trouble getting started, then he peed like he’d never stop.

  Finally he came over to the pig shed.

  “Anybody here yet?” he asked.

  “No, not yet.”

  “Wonder what’s
keepin’ ‘em.”

  Just then we heard a car coming up the hill. Could it be? And we looked to the road but we were fooled. There was no car to be seen. It was nothing but the tricky sounds of traffic drifting across town from 94.

  Uncle Brucker made a face like it’s a crazy world and we’re stuck in it. What can you do? And he walked back to the old house.

  He came out with a beer and a can of Coke. He handed me the Coke and leaned back against the shed wall. White paint flakes fell from the ceiling. He brushed a bunch of flakes off his shoulders. There were more flakes in his hair. I guess I had some flakes on me too.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my squad,” he said. “Six years since the last Uprisin’. I was hopin’ they’d get here early and have time to reminisce. Guess that idea’s shot now. Now I gotta reminisce by myself, which takes the fun out of reminiscin’. Looks like that’s the way it’ll be tonight. You see another way?”

  “It ain’t so late.”

  “It ain’t.”

  31

  Tired, nodding off. The street lights went on up the hill and down on the corner, and the night settled down. Night bugs flew in the windows and beat against the walls. The squirrels chased each other around the loft like it was a race track. A barn bat made circles high above the yard, then flew straight to the streetlight and then I don’t know where. The moon went off and hung out somewhere else. I couldn’t find it anywhere around here.

  Uncle Brucker finished his beer and threw the can in the corner of the shed. I had some Coke left I was saving. He went outside to take a pee and check around.

  He came back and stuck his head in the window.

  “You still in there?”

  “I ain’t gone nowhere,” I told him.

  “Gettin’ chilly,” he said.

  “I got a over shirt I can wear.”

  “Well, where is it?”

  “On the back of the chair.”

  “You keepin’ the chair warm?”

  “I ain’t’ cold. Don’t know about the chair. . . . What was that?”

  Out there in the woods, a howl. It started out strong then cut off like a howling question. I had heard it before, earlier. Now it was back again, and closer. And another howl too, a long-stretching answer howl. We listened to the answer howl fade into the night. It was spooky.

  “What was that, coy dogs callin’?” I asked.

  “Nah, it ain’t no coy dog. Them’s ratfuckers howlin’ on a moonless night.”

  “You mean they’re doin’ it out there?”

  “No, it’s cause they ain’t gettin’ any,” Uncle Brucker said.

  32

  Every passing car could have Downtown or Midnight Mary or the Doc behind the wheel, especially since none of the cars stopped near the house. So I checked out every car that passed to see if it stopped up ahead.

  What kind of car would Midnight show up in? Probably a turbo Mustang or some other hot muscle car, screeching around the corner, slamming on the brakes. And the Doc? Cough-cough, clank-clank! A creaky old Dodge Dart, still in the family, begging for a tune-up and barely making it up the hill.

  I put on my over shirt.

  With a Boomers to keep him company, Uncle Brucker reminisced.

  He was battling the rats during the Second Uprising. Deep in rat territory, the entire company was surrounded. Midnight Mary gave him the danger signal. Something went wrong, a break in the line, and the rats came through.

  After a quick count they came up one man short.

  Duffy! They had left Duffy back at the Squad Bar!

  Uncle Brucker said, “Our motto is All For One And One For All, and we stick by it. So we all left the battle and we all went back to the bar to find Duffy. Dirty rat trick, spikin’ his drink. He was wobbly. The Doc gave him three fast-actin’ sober-up pills. Duffy had his finger in the bottle, so maybe four. In two minutes time he was smilin’ an I’d-rather-be-killin’-rats smile, and he went off to do just that. A real professional.

  “Now we were a Full Fightin’ Force. By the time we got back to the front we were off-duty, but we were so full of fight we slaughtered two hunred rats durin’ our break. Set a new record for off duty slaughterin’. The Army won’t give out medals for battles they can’t talk about—it goes against policy. They use a made-up name instead. The War Medal I got says Battle of The By-Pass so no one knows. I ran into General Hardesty after the ceremony and I said, you didn’t have to do that, sir, give me that By-Pass Medal. A citation would do just as well. He said, I know what to do and what not to do, and I don’t need no pesty sergeant reminding me.

  “He’s right about that. When you’re right, you’re right. Sometimes I’m wrong, I admit it. The General don’t need remindin’. I was wrong for doubtin’ him and I was wrong to say what I said, but I was right about sayin’ I said it. So you see, two wrongs can make a right! And it was me made it right, not the General. The Medal? Take it home, he said. It’s got your name on it. Put it on your mantle but keep it in your heart. He’s that type a guy.”

  33

  Uncle Brucker’s squad members didn’t get to the old house until after eleven. First came Downtown in her old VW. The Doc followed in a Camry not far behind. My assignment was make sure each squad member enters the house a different way to avoid suspicion.

  Downtown and the Doc got the front and back doors, Midnight Mary and ex-Lieutenant Willett went in through the two side windows, but Duffy had to get down on his knees and crawl through the little basement window under the dining room. He whined and complained it ain’t fair, but what did he expect? That’s what you get when you’re last to arrive.

  I hung out in my room and left the squad alone just like Uncle Brucker told me. Everybody slept on the floor in the living room except Downtown and Midnight Mary. They slept on the front porch outside my bedroom window. The window was open. I lay in bed and they talked for a while.

  Midnight Mary sounded nervous. But not Downtown. Every night, on duty or off, she slept in her camo army bag with her rat rifle beside her. She was as cool as an Eskimo pie, as sharp as a carpet tack.

  “Just like old times, ain’t it Midnight?” said Downtown.

  “I wish,” said Midnight.

  “Old times ain’t so bad.”

  “My nerves ain’t what they used to be. I better attend to that.”

  “You know what they say? If you ain’t worried then you ain’t prepared.”

  “That’s what they say?”

  “Somebody says it.”

  “Scoot over a bit, will ya, hon?”

  “Better?”

  “Better.”

  “Night, Mid.”

  “Downie.”

  34

  Friday, 10:45 a.m. Wearing what was left of his old army uniform, Uncle Brucker stood in the kitchen by the back door.

  “I’m off for a two-week assignment,” he said. “But I don’t know how long before I’ll get back. You see guys walkin’ around with backpacks like mine, they’re probably goin’ off to the Uprisin’. Waitin’ at bus stops, train stations, there could be an assignment backup. It ain’t unusual for an assignment backup to add an extra week or two. So, addin’ it up, a two-week assignment can turn into four weeks even when it starts out as two. You got backups to deal with and government red tape, and you know that don’t make it easy. Truth is, you never know when you’ll get back from a two-week assignment. How do I look?”

  “Like Sergeant Brucker,” I said.

  Camo jacket, holes in the elbows. Green work pants tucked into high white socks. He threw out his army boots years ago so he wore his heavy winter boots. Pack strapped to his back, rifle barrel sticking out the top.

  The pack! He slipped it off his shoulder and unzipped it. He had to check it one more time. He pulled out the call-up orders General Hardesty sent by mail and read them once more. Socks, underwear, cigarettes, lighter, map, compass. Everything in order once again.

  Then he walked over to his dusty War Medal on the high sh
elf in the living room and ran his finger through the dust one last time. Beautiful!

  That was everything. Nothing more to check.

  And now I understood. He was stalling. He was stalling because he didn’t want to go to war. Moving slowly, checking his pack, reviewing his orders again and again. Wishing he never answered that damn phone call from General Hardesty. Wishing he didn’t have to volunteer.

  We stood at the back door for a while, looking through the screen and thinking, looking and thinking about things we didn’t say. Now it was past eleven and the Ram should start up easy—if you don’t pump it.

  He pushed the door open and we walked out into the yard. Midnight Mary waited in the Ram. Everyone else rode with the Doc in the Camry.

  It was a bright sunny day but don’t ask me for a weather report. I only saw the driveway and the shadows under the trees.

  In the short distance from the porch to the Ram, he filled me with last minute advice. He spoke quickly and walked slowly. He had much to say.

  “Don’t tell nobody I’m goin’,” he said. “Don’t say nuthin’ to the neighbors if they come snoopin’ around. It’s a Special Assignment and none a their damn business. Remember the three Key Steps.” He put his arm around my shoulder. Side-by-side, shoulder-to-shoulder, and he was no taller than me. “If the Wrestlin’ Rat shows up and picks a fight, give him this. Watch me. Knee jab to the stomach, left to the jaw. Got it? Like this. Knee to the stomach. Uh! Left to the jaw. Uh! Believe me he won’t expect that! Been savin’ that move for years. Use it if you want, then get him in a German Headlock. Rats hate that headlock. They don’t know German and they got no way a gettin’ out of it.” He opened the door to the Ram and he slid in. “If that don’t do it, try a Cherokee Chokehold. Now, how do you handle the Wrestlin’ Rat?”

  “Knee to the stomach. Left to the jaw. Uh! Uh! German Head-lock, then a Cherokee Chokehold. What’s a Cherokee Chokehold?”

  “Oh, man! You had sixteen years to ask me that question. Sixteen! No time to explain it all now.” He turned the key and started up the Ram. “A half-hold goes like this. Right arm around the neck, third degree pressure on the thyroid cartilage. Take it from there.”