Emmy and the Rats in the Belfry

by Lynne Jonell

  They ran across a wooden floor, scampered up a long flight of stairs, and wiggled around the edge of the heavy door to her parents’ spare bedroom.

  “Jane, dear,” said the black rat, panting, “maybe you shouldn’t try this just yet. The police are waiting to catch Miss Barmy—I mean, catch the full-size human that was a nanny to those little girls, and if you grow, you’ll be in danger!”

  “We’ll figure all that out later, Cheswick,” said the piebald rat, ripping open the plastic bag with her claws. “I’m not going to wait one more minute to use these patches.”

  Jane Barmy (the short, furry version) stood on her hind feet, faced the full-length mirror, and took a deep breath. The stolen Sissy-patches were laid out on a terry-cloth towel before her.

  “Are you going to use them all at once?” Cheswick asked. “How many are there?”

  “I don’t know,” said Miss Barmy through her teeth. “Not as many as there should be. Didn’t you see the professor give two patches to that disgusting Emmaline?”

  “Two isn’t enough to worry about,” said Cheswick. He studied the patches. “Roll fast,” he advised. “Pull the towel right around you, and that will keep the patches next to your skin.”

  The piebald rat nodded, her whiskers quivering. Then, in one fluid motion, she leaped onto the Sissy-patches and rolled herself up in them like a burrito.

  “Jane! Oh, Jane, dearest, you’re making such terrible noises! Are you in pain, my little sugar-bunny? Speak to me, Jane!”

  But Jane Barmy could not speak. Her mouth was twisted in agony, and a high-pitched squeal filled the room. And then she did begin to change—and grow—but not evenly, not first to human and then to full size, but in splotches of human and rat mixed, skin and piebald fur and whiskers and soft dark hair, pink cheeks and lovely eyes and sharp rodent teeth.

  Cheswick shuddered as he watched, and he wrung his paws until the fur began to fray, but there was no stopping the transformation that was convulsing his darling. And then, all at once, it was done.

  She stood before him, tall and beautiful and entirely human, the woman he adored, fetchingly wrapped in the terry-cloth towel that had grown with her. He had become a rat for love of her, and suddenly he was conscious of the fact that he was still a rat. Cheswick bit his claws in sudden despair. Would she think he was too small for her? Too furry, perhaps? Would he have to hide his tail?

  Jane Barmy gazed into the mirror as if she could never get enough of her own reflection. She smiled, a slow, lovely smile, her teeth like perfect white chisels—no, like sharp, pointy chisels—no, like ratty chisels in a pointed, whiskered face—no! “No! NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

  The howl that echoed between the walls of the spare room was at first full-voiced, the sound of a grown woman screaming in horror. But it dwindled, it shrank, until it was only a high-pitched squeak, and in front of the mirror was a small, splotchy rodent, brown and tan and white, sobbing bitter tears.

  “Oh, my precious fuzzbundle, oh, Barmsie!” cried Cheswick, rushing to take her in his furry embrace. And Miss Barmy sank weakly against him, crying on his shoulder, in a way that, so far, had only happened to him in dreams.

  “Is everything all right?” Jane Barmy’s father, a mild, chubby old man in rumpled pajamas, peered sleepily into the room. “I heard someone scream …” He gazed at the piebald rat. Though she had recently turned small and hairy, she was still his daughter, and he noticed with concern the wet tracks of tears along her fuzzy cheeks.

  “I’m fine, Father. It was just an experiment. Go to bed.”

  “But the police might have heard! What will I tell them?”

  “Tell them anything. Tell them Mother had a nightmare. Go on, Father! We’re busy!”

  The white-haired man shuffled obediently out of the room, his down-at-heel slippers scuffing along the hall.

  Miss Barmy wiped her eyes and spoke crisply. “Get a pencil and paper, Cheswick, and stop patting me already. We need a plan of action.”

  Cheswick, who had been mentally diagramming the layout of a nice little burrow in the riverbank—they would need a nursery for the litters to come—came out of his reverie with a start. “A-a plan, Jane?” Surely she understood now that she had to stay a rat. Perhaps she wanted to plan the wedding?

  “We have a goal, Cheswick, and therefore we must have a strategy. First, the goal.”

  Cheswick gripped his pencil and wrote “Marry Jane Barmy.” He leaned his whiskered cheek on his paw and gazed at the words, sucking dreamily on the end of his pencil.

  “And the goal is,” the piebald rat went on, “to turn me back into a full-size human—permanently.”

  Cheswick gave her a pleading look. “But, Jane! Surely you aren’t going to keep trying to grow?”

  “Naturally I’m going to keep trying. Write it, Cheswick.”

  The black rat gripped the pencil stub and wrote “Grow the beautiful Jane” and set aside his dream of a cozy burrow with a long, heartfelt sigh. “I guess we’ll need more Sissy-patches.”

  “Yes, Cheswick, but not just the patches alone. We need that kissy rat herself.”

  Cheswick shook his head. “She’ll never do it.”

  Miss Barmy gave him a wilting glare. “Do you think I’m planning to ask her permission? We’re going to kidnap her, of course. Or—would that be ratnap?”

  “Either way,” said Cheswick faintly.

  “Well, that’s the first thing we have to do, then. And next, we have to find a place that isn’t watched by the police, where we can keep the kissy rat locked up and keep making the patches until we get it right. Father can mail us the supplies that we need. Ideally, we want a place set up like a lab, where we can—oh! Cheswick!”

  “Wha?” Cheswick snapped to attention.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I want to be thinking what you’re thinking, Jane, dearest,” said Cheswick cautiously. “What are you thinking?”

  “Is that old lab of the professor’s still in Schenectady?”

  “Why, yes, of course. I had it boarded up, but I still paid the taxes on it every year. I thought maybe someday I would go back and make a name for myself in rodentology, just like the profess—” Cheswick cut himself off and left his mouth hanging open. “Jane! You want to go to Schenectady with me?”

  “You may be slow, Cheswick, but you always get it eventually. Yes, I’m going to Schenectady with you, and we’ll hole up in that old laboratory with the kissy rat until I’m my old self again or we all die, whichever comes first.”

  Cheswick felt all soft and saggy with love. Alone with Jane … in Schenectady! What could possibly be more romantic?

  A thought intruded. They wouldn’t be quite alone. “How are we going to get Sissy Rat there? How are we going to get there ourselves?”

  “We’ll take the train, of course.”

  “But even if we tie her up, Sissy will be kicking and squeaking the whole way. And she’ll be heavy, too. How are we going to do it without anyone noticing, Jane?”

  “You leave that to me, Cheswick. I’m beginning to get an idea … a fabulous, brilliant idea …” She sat in thought, pink nose twitching. “How is your penmanship, Cheswick?”

  Cheswick beamed. “Did you notice those rodent tags on the counter? I wrote all those out by hand, years ago.”

  “Very good.” The piebald rat stroked her whiskers. “And how are your claws, these days? Long enough to poke holes in ceiling tile?”

  Cheswick guiltily hid his bitten claws behind his back. “If they’re not, I can just use a nail, dearest. Or an awl. I’m sure your father will have one in his shoe shop.”

  “That’s true.” Miss Barmy got up and began to pace. “By the way, do you know any bats? Postal bats?”

  “Well …” Cheswick thought for a moment. “I know Stefano. And Guido. Stefano owes me a favor,” he added.

  “Excellent! You know, this really is a fabulous idea—possibly my best yet.” Miss Barmy clapped her paws together. “W
e’d better get started. We’ve got all night to steal what we need and get into position. Oh, and Cheswick?”

  “Yes, my little cuddle dumpling?”

  “We’re not going to bring Sissy to Schenectady. That nasty little Emmaline Addison is going to do it for us. Now, listen. Here’s what I want you to do.”

  7

  EMMY COULDN’T SLEEP.

  For one thing, she had a cat in her room.

  It hadn’t been her idea, but everyone else had agreed it was the best thing to do. “Someone is getting in your room when the door is shut,” the professor had said. “I wonder if some stray river rats sneaked in to ride on your electric train and vandalized your room. They can be a little wild.”

  “Could it be Miss Barmy, sir?” Joe had asked. “She hates Emmy. And Cheswick does whatever she tells him to do.”

  “Surely they know that everyone is looking for them,” said Professor Capybara. “I would have thought they’d be far away by now. But I suppose it’s possible.”

  So Emmy had borrowed Muffy for the night. The river rats would hardly go into a room where they smelled a cat. And Emmy had no doubt that even Miss Barmy, as long as she stayed a rat, would think twice before tangling with Muffy.

  Miss Barmy would stay a rat, Emmy thought with relief. Sissy’s kisses didn’t work on her; they had been tried. The professor had guessed that all Miss Barmy’s nastiness clogged up something important inside her and blocked the effect of the kiss. That made perfect sense to Emmy.

  She was feeling a little clogged up, herself. She didn’t even want to think about the disappointed looks on her parents’ faces or the hours of extra chores they had made her do. It wasn’t fair, but what could she tell them? Joe thought Miss Barmy was behind it all, but Emmy could hardly expect her parents to believe that her old nanny was now a rat. They already thought she had lied about her room. She didn’t want to make things worse.

  Her parents had looked happier when she’d told them about Ana’s party, though. They had even given permission for her to go back and decorate after her chores were done. And now all was ready for the party in the morning. Emmy and Joe had delivered invitations, hung streamers and blown up balloons, and ordered a cake from the bakery. Emmy had even remembered to ask the professor for two Sissy-patches ahead of time. Tomorrow, when she and Ana shrank to visit Rodent City, they would not have to find Sissy in order to grow to full size again. Which was a good thing, because they would have a party to go to and guests to greet, and they could not be late.

  Emmy rolled over in bed and pulled the blankets up over her ears. How was she supposed to fall asleep with Muffy making all that noise? It sounded like the cat was banging pots and pans—

  Emmy sat up abruptly. The clanking sounds were not coming from Muffy, who was curled up on the floor. They were emerging from higher up, on the wall. The intercom switch was still stuck in the on position, and Emmy could hear everything that was going on in the kitchen. Were her parents making a midnight snack, or what? There was a lot of banging around, and even some squeaking—

  Emmy shot out of bed, grabbed her robe, and ran soft-footed down the stairs to the kitchen. “Ratty! What are you doing?”

  The Rat, his fur whitened with flour, looked hot, sweaty, and blissful. He was perched on the rim of a blue mixing bowl, and he was gripping a wire whisk with both paws. “Oh, good! You can help me toast the almonds!”

  Emmy stared at the open cookbook, gritty with sugar, and an egg that had fallen on the floor and smashed. A thicket of knives lay entangled on the counter—that must have been the clatter she’d heard—and the refrigerator door had swung open.

  “I don’t believe this!” Emmy’s whisper was despairing.

  “I know!” The Rat flung out his arms and the whisk slid down into the bowl. “Here you have this great kitchen, but nobody ever makes biscotti!”

  There was a sound of footsteps in the hall, and Raston ducked behind the toaster as the kitchen door creaked open. Emmy stood perfectly still for one dreadful moment. Then she turned to face her parents.

  “Oh, Emmy,” said Kathy Addison, sinking down on a chair in her nightgown.

  “What on earth are you doing now?” Her father’s hair was mussed from sleep, but his voice was wide awake and furious.

  Emmy cast desperately in her mind for some sort of explanation that would satisfy her parents. “Um—making something for the party?”

  Her father lowered his chin and fixed her with unblinking eyes. “You’re making something for the party,” he repeated slowly.

  “Ana’s party,” said Emmy. She paused—what would she say if she really had been making something for the party? “Ana doesn’t have a family, and she’s worried about where she’s going … I wanted to make her something really special. And I didn’t want to bother you,” she added in a burst of inspiration.

  Jim Addison’s gaze traveled over the mess on the counter, the egg on the floor, the wide-open refrigerator. “And what, exactly, were you making?”

  Emmy glanced nervously behind the toaster.

  “Biscotti!” mouthed the Rat.

  “Biscotti,” Emmy repeated, hoping her father wouldn’t ask her what that was.

  The grim set of her father’s mouth softened at the corners. He exchanged a glance with his wife.

  “Darling,” said Emmy’s mother, “if you wanted something special for Ana’s party, all you had to do was ask. Mrs. Brecksniff or Maggie would have been glad to make those Italian cookies for you.”

  “Better yet, we’ll order some biscotti from the bakery,” said her father. “We’ll do it in the morning. But right now, clean up this mess!”

  “And go straight back to bed when you’re done,” said her mother, with a hug.

  The door shut behind her parents. Emmy reached up to the intercom and jiggled the switch until it clicked off.

  The Rat scampered out from behind the toaster. “We can’t order biscotti from the bakery!” he said, his eyes wide and alarmed. “It’s not the same! It won’t be as fresh!”

  “Oh, shut up, Ratty,” said Emmy. “And wipe up that egg. There’s no way I’m doing all this alone.”

  Emmy was groggy the next morning, and she opened her bedroom door before she remembered Muffy. The cat slipped past her legs, clearly annoyed at having been shut in all night.

  Then downstairs, when Emmy opened the door to get the paper, she forgot about the cat again. “Drat you, Muffy!”

  Muffy, down the steps and five leaps into the lawn, looked back with a smug expression.

  “Oh, go on,” said Emmy crossly. “You know I can’t catch you now. Go ahead and kill a bird or something, you mean thing. But you had better stay away from rodents, if you know what’s good for you.”

  At least Ratty was safely back in Rodent City, she thought as she watched Muffy stalk away. Raston had helped with kitchen cleanup and then he’d left, still complaining about the biscotti.

  Emmy couldn’t find it in her to care. Her parents would pick up an order of the Italian cookies at the bakery, and that would have to be good enough for Ratty.

  Her spirits rose as she skipped up the hill on her way to the Antique Rat. Ahead of her were the school and the playground, and on top of the slide was Joe, waiting for her. His little brother, Thomas, was a short distance away, crouched over something on the ground.

  “I have to babysit today,” Joe said cheerfully. “But you know Thomas—if grown-ups are around, he’s pretty useful.”

  Emmy grinned. Thomas was only six and a half, but he had large blue eyes, a round, chubby face, and an excellent ability to look innocent at difficult times. “What’s he looking at? Worms?”

  “Or caterpillars,” said Joe, letting go of the slide railing and flying down on his back. He landed with a thump in the sand and got up, dusting himself off. “So, any more problems with your room getting wrecked?”

  Emmy adjusted the shoulder strap on her backpack. “Not since Muffy. But I didn’t get much sleep. Hey, Thomas!”
she called. “Come on, we’re going to the Antique Rat!”

  Thomas called back something indistinct.

  Emmy looked at Joe. “What did he say?”

  “He found something or other. Bring it with you!” Joe called over his shoulder.

  They crossed Main Street and turned in to the alley that led to the back streets. Joe was talking about the science badge he was working on for Scouts and how he was going to ask the professor to help him, but Emmy only half listened. She was thinking about her parents.

  In a few hours, they would be proud of her again. They would see that she was responsible and trustworthy—at least if all went according to plan. And it would. Emmy had a checklist and a timetable; she had all the supplies she needed in her backpack. Right now, Brian was picking up Ana and Squippy, and Ratty would be waiting for them upstairs in the professor’s apartment.

  They were at the door of the Antique Rat. Joe looked over his shoulder at his brother, who was walking slowly, looking at something in his cupped hands. “Hurry up, Thomas!”

  Emmy pushed open the door of the Antique Rat and smiled. The party decorations she had put up yesterday looked festive; the balloons and streamers swayed lightly in the draft from the open door. The punch bowl and mints were ready on a little table, and the professor was—

  Emmy stopped smiling. Professor Capybara, on the far side of the room, thumped the laboratory counter with his hand, his face reddening.

  “My formula!” he cried. “All my Sissy-patches! Gone!”

  “Stay calm, Professor!” Emmy cried. “You know what happens—”

  Professor Capybara tried to hold his eyelids open, but they closed irresistibly. He swayed, sank to his knees, and toppled over onto the floor with a crash.

  “—when you get upset,” finished Emmy, as he began to snore.

  8

  “NOT AGAIN!” Joe stood at her shoulder. “I thought he’d found a cure for the Snoozer virus.”

  “He was working on a cure.” Emmy bent over the professor and straightened the glasses on his nose. “Wake up, Professor!”