by Mary Kubica
as she didn’t move.
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In her bed, Mouse tried to hold real still too.
But Fake Mom saw her there, just as she saw Bert.
Fake Mom flicked the bedroom light on. The brightness of
it overpowered Mouse’s tired, dilated eyes, so that at first she
couldn’t see. But she could hear. Fake Mom spoke, her voice com-
posed in a way that startled Mouse even more than if it wasn’t.
Her steps were slow and deliberate as she let herself into the room, when Mouse wished she would come running in, screaming and
then leave. Because then it would be over and through.
What did I tell you about picking up after yourself, Mouse? Fake Mom asked, coming closer to the bed, stepping past Bert and her
cage. She grabbed Mouse’s bedspread by the edge and tugged,
revealing Mouse in her unicorn pajamas beneath, the ones she
put on without anyone having to tell her to put them on. Be-
side Mouse, in the bed, was Mr. Bear. Did you think that picking up after yourself didn’t mean flushing a toilet or wiping up after you piss all over the seat, the same seat that I have to sit on?
Mouse’s blood ran cold. She didn’t have to think about what
Fake Mom was talking about. She knew. And she knew there
was no point in explaining, though she tried anyway. Her voice
trembled as she spoke. She told Fake Mom what happened. How
she tried to be quiet. How she didn’t want to wake Fake Mom
up. How she didn’t mean to pee on the seat. How she didn’t
flush the toilet because she knew it would be loud.
But Mouse was nervous when she spoke. She was scared. Her
little voice shook so that her words came out unintelligibly. Fake
Mom didn’t like mumbling. She barked at Mouse, Speak up!
Then she rolled her eyes and said that Mouse wasn’t nearly as
smart as her father thought she was.
Mouse tried to explain again. To speak louder, to enunciate
her words. But it didn’t matter because Fake Mom didn’t want
an explanation, whether an audible or inaudible one. The ques-
tion she’d asked, Mouse realized too late, was rhetorical, the
kind of question that doesn’t want an answer at all.
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MARY KUBICA
Do you know what happens when dogs have accidents inside the
house? Fake Mom asked Mouse. Mouse didn’t know for sure what happened. She’d never had a dog before, but what she thought
was that someone cleaned the mess up, and that was that. It was
done. Because that’s the way it happened with Bert. Bert was
forever pooping and peeing in Mouse’s lap, and it was never a
big deal. Mouse wiped it up, she washed her hands, and went
back to playing with Bert.
But Fake Mom wouldn’t have asked the question if it was as
easy as that.
Mouse told her that she didn’t know.
I’ll show you what happens, Fake Mom said as she grabbed
Mouse by the arm and pulled her from bed. Mouse didn’t want
to go where Fake Mom wanted her to go. But she didn’t object
because she knew it would hurt less if she just went with Fake
Mom than allowing herself to be pulled from bed and dragged
down the squeaky stairs. So that’s what she did. Except that Fake
Mom walked faster than Mouse could walk, and so she tripped.
When she did, she fell all the way to the floor. It made Fake
Mom angry. It made her scream, Get up!
Mouse did. They made their way down the steps. The house
was mostly dark, but there was a hint of the night sky coming
in through the windows.
Fake Mom brought Mouse into the living room. She brought
her to the center of the room, turned her in a specific direction.
There, in the corner of the room, was the empty dog crate, door
open as it never is.
I used to have a dog once, Fake Mom said. A springer spaniel. I named him Max, mostly because I couldn’t think of a better name. He was a good dog. A dumb dog, but a good dog. We took walks together.
Sometimes, when we’d watch TV, he’d sit by my side. But then Max went and made an accident in the corner of my house when I wasn’t home, and that made Max bad, she said.
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inside our homes, where they’re not supposed to go. It’s dirty, Mouse.
Do you understand that? The best way to teach a dog is by crate training. Because the dog doesn’t want to have to sit with its own piss and shit for days. And so it learns to hold it. Same as you can, Fake Mom said as she grabbed Mouse by the arm and yanked her the rest
of the way across the living room for that open dog crate.
Mouse fought back, but Mouse was a child, only six years old.
She weighed less than half of what Fake Mom weighed and she
had nearly no strength at all.
Mouse had had no dinner. Only three Salerno Butter Cook-
ies. She’s just been woken from sleep. It was the middle of the
night and she was tired. She wiggled and writhed, but that was
the best she could do, and so she was easily manhandled by Fake
Mom. She was forced into the dog crate, which was not even as
tall as she was when she sat down. She couldn’t even sit all the
way up inside the cage, and so her head rubbed against the hard
metal bars of the cage, her neck kinked. She couldn’t lie down,
couldn’t stretch out her legs. She had to keep them pulled into
her so that they went numb.
Mouse was crying. She was begging to be let out. Promising
to be good, to never pee on the toilet seat again.
But Fake Mom wasn’t listening.
Because Fake Mom was making her way back upstairs.
Mouse didn’t know why. She thought maybe Fake Mom was
going back up to get her poor Mr. Bear.
But when Fake Mom returned she didn’t have the bear.
She had Bert.
It made Mouse shriek, seeing her sweet guinea pig in Fake
Mom’s hands. Bert never did like to be held by anyone other
than Mouse. She was kicking her tiny feet in Fake Mom’s grasp,
squealing her high-pitched squeal, louder than Mouse had ever
heard her before. It wasn’t the same squeal she made for car-
rots. It was a different kind of squeal. A terrified kind of squeal.
Mouse’s heart was beating a million miles a minutes.
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MARY KUBICA
She beat on the bars of that dog crate but couldn’t get out.
She tried forcing the door open but it wouldn’t budge because
there was some sort of padlock on that door.
Did you know, Mouse, that a dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one? she asked, holding one of her knives up in the air to examine the blade in the moonlight.
How many times, she asked, not waiting for an answer to the question she already asked, do I have to tell you that I don’t want one rodent in this house, let alone two?
Mouse closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her ears so
that she co
uldn’t see or hear what came next.
It wasn’t a week before Mouse’s father had another work trip.
He stood in the doorway saying his goodbyes as Fake Mom
stood beside Mouse.
I’ll only be gone for a few days. I’ll be back before you can miss me, her father said as he stared into Mouse’s sad eyes, promising her
that when he got home they’d pick out a new guinea pig for her,
one to replace Bert. Her father was of the opinion that Bert had
merely run away, that she was getting her kicks somewhere in
the voids of the house where they couldn’t find her.
Mouse didn’t want a new guinea pig. Not then, not ever. And
only Mouse and Fake Mom knew the reason why.
Beside her, Fake Mom squeezed Mouse’s shoulder. She stroked
her mousy brown hair, and said, We’re going to get along just fine.
Aren’t we Mouse? Now say goodbye to your father so that he can go on his trip.
Mouse tearfully said goodbye.
She and Fake Mom stood beside each other, watching as her fa-
ther’s car pulled from the drive and disappeared around the bend.
And then Fake Mom kicked the front door closed and turned
on Mouse.
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Sadie
The public safety building is a small brick building in the center
of town. I’m grateful to find the door unlocked, a warm, yel-
low light glowing from the inside.
A woman sits behind the desk, pecking away on a keyboard
as I let myself in. She startles, clutching her bosom when the
door bursts open and I appear. On a day such as this, she hadn’t
expected anyone to be outside.
I trip over the door’s threshold on the way in. I didn’t see the
one-inch rise. I fall to my hands and knees just inside the door-
way, not having it in me to catch myself in time. The floor isn’t
as yielding as the snow; this fall hurts far more than the others.
“Oh dear,” the woman says, rising quickly to her feet to
come help me to mine. She nearly runs around the edge of the
desk and reaches for me on the floor. Her mouth hangs open,
her eyes wide with surprise. She can’t believe what she’s seeing.
The room around me is boxy and small. Yellow walls, carpeted
floors, a double pedestal desk. The air is miraculously warm. A
space heater stands in the corner, blowing heated air through-
out the room.
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MARY KUBICA
I’ve no sooner found my feet than I go to the heater, drop-
ping to my knees before the oscillating fan.
“Officer Berg,” I just manage to say, lips sluggish from the
cold. My back is to the woman. “Officer Berg please.”
“Yes,” she says, “yes, of course,” and before I know what’s
happening, she’s screaming for him. She graciously reaches past
me to turn the space heater to a higher speed, and I press my
hands to it, burning from the cold.
“There’s someone here to see you,” she says uneasily and I
turn.
When he appears, Officer Berg says nothing. He walks quickly
because of the screaming, because of the edge in his secretary’s
voice that warns him something is wrong. He takes in my paja-
mas as he moves past me for the coffeepot. He fills a Styrofoam
cup with coffee and extends it to me in an effort to warm me
up. He helps me rise to my feet, pressing the cup into my hands.
I don’t drink it, but the heat off the cup feels good to touch. I
feel grateful for it. The storm perseveres outside, the entirety of the little building shuddering at times. Lights flicker, the walls
whine. He reaches for a coat on a coatrack and wraps me in it.
“I have to speak with you,” I tell him, the desperation and
fatigue in my voice palpable.
Officer Berg leads me down the hall. We sit side by side at a
small expandable table. The room is bare.
“What are you doing here, Dr. Foust?” he asks me, his tone
thoughtful and concerned, but also leery. “Heck of a day to be
outside,” he says.
I find myself shaking uncontrollably. For as much as I try, I
can’t warm up. My hands are wrapped around the cup of cof-
fee. Officer Berg gives me a nudge and tells me to drink up.
But it’s not the cold that makes me shake.
I start to tell him everything, but before I can, Officer Berg
says, “I received a call from your husband a short while ago,”
and my words get stuck in my throat. I’m at a loss, wondering
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why Will called him after we’d agreed that we’d come see him
together.
“You did?” I ask instead, sitting upright, because these aren’t
words I expected to hear. Officer Berg nods his head slowly. He
has an uncanny way of maintaining eye contact. I struggle not
to look away. I ask, “What did he want?” bracing myself for the
officer’s reply.
“He was worried about you,” Officer Berg says, and I feel
myself relax. Will called because he was worried about me.
“Of course,” I say, softening in the chair. Perhaps he tried to
call me first and when I didn’t answer the phone, he called Of-
ficer Berg. Perhaps he asked Officer Berg to check on me and
see if I was alright. “The weather. And the ferry delay. I was
upset the last time we spoke.”
“Yes,” he says. “Mr. Foust told me.”
I start, again sitting upright.
“He told you I was upset?” I ask on the defense, because this
is personal, not something Will needed to tell the police.
He nods. “He’s worried about you. He said you were upset
about some washcloth,” and it’s then that the conversation shifts,
because it’s patronizing the way he says it. As if I’m just some
stupid ninny running off at the mouth about a washcloth.
“Oh,” I say, and I leave it at that.
“I was getting ready to head to your house and check on you.
You saved me a trip,” he says. Officer Berg tells me the after-
noon commute will be messy because the local schools weren’t
called off ahead of the storm. The only saving grace is that the
snow is to slow in the hours to come.
And then Officer Berg begins to pry. “You want to tell me
about this washcloth?”
“I found a washcloth,” I tell him slowly, “covered in blood.
In my laundry room.” And then because I’ve said that much al-
ready, I go on. “I found the knife buried in my backyard.”
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MARY KUBICA
He doesn’t so much as blink. “The knife that was used to kill
Mrs. Baines?” he asks.
“I believe so,” I say. “Yes. It had blood on it.”
“Where is the knife now, Doctor?”
“It’s in my backyard.”
“You left it there?”
“I did.”
“Did you touch it?�
�
“No,” I say.
“Whereabouts in your backyard?” he asks, and I try and de-
scribe it for him though I imagine that by now the knife is en-
gulfed in snow.
“And what about this washcloth? Where is that?”
“Under the washing machine. In the laundry room,” I tell
him. He asks if there’s blood on that still too and I say yes. He
excuses himself and leaves the room. For nearly thirty seconds
he’s gone and when he comes back, he tells me that Officer Bis-
set is going to my home to retrieve the washcloth and knife. I
say to him, “My son is home,” but he assures me that’s alright,
that Officer Bisset will be in and out quickly. That he won’t
bother Otto.
“But I think, officer,” I start and then just as soon stop. I
don’t know how to say this. I pick at the rim of the Styrofoam
cup, pieces of foam coming with me, gathering in a pile on the
tabletop like snow.
And then I come right out and say it. “I think maybe my son
murdered Mrs. Baines,” I say. “Or maybe Imogen did.”
I expect more of a reaction. But instead he goes on, as if I
didn’t just say those words aloud.
“There’s something you should know, Dr. Foust,” he says,
and I ask, “What’s that?”
“Your husband…”
“Yes?”
“Will—”
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I hate this way he beats around the bush. It’s utterly madden-
ing. “I know my husband’s name,” I snap, and for a moment he
stares at me, saying nothing.
“Yes,” he says in time. “I suppose you do.”
A beat of silence passes by. All the while, he stares at me. I
shift in my seat.
“When he called, he retracted his earlier statement about the
night Mrs. Baines was killed. About how the two of you were
watching TV and then went straight to bed. According to your
husband, that’s not entirely true.”
I’m taken aback. “It’s not?”
“It’s not. Not according to Mr. Foust.”
“What did Mr. Foust say happened?” I churlishly ask as voices
come through on the police scanner, loud but indistinct. Officer
Berg goes to it, turning the volume down so that we can speak.
He returns to his chair. “He said that that night, after your
program ended, you didn’t go to bed like you said. He said you
