Oh, Rats!

by Tor Seidler

When there was a break in the stream of humans, Martha led him across the jogging path. On the far side Phoenix whiffed water.

  “Jump in,” Martha said when they reached the waterfront. “That’s Jersey over there.”

  Squinting, Phoenix made out a square cove hemmed in by two long structures and, far off on the river’s opposite shore, the hazy silhouette of more buildings. Directly below them, waves were sloshing against a stone wall. The stone wall looked slick, and the drop to the water was longer than from the hole in his tree to the ground. Desperate as he was for water, he simply couldn’t face another free fall after what he’d just been through.

  “Is there better access on one of those?” he asked, pointing at one of the long structures.

  “Not really,” said Martha.

  She explained that this whole neighborhood used to be derelict and almost deserted, including the piers. But in recent years luxury high-rises had been sprouting up all over the place—some of the spears Phoenix had seen from above. They were packed with humans, as were the piers.

  “That one was turned into a golf range,” she said, pointing. “There’s a gym up there, and past that, a skating rink.”

  None of this meant much to Phoenix, but pain trumps curiosity. “There must be somewhere I can get down to the water,” he said.

  Martha pondered a moment. “Well, there is one ratty old pier that hasn’t been gussied up,” she said.

  As she took flight, the tips of her wings clacked together. She landed a ways down the waterfront on a railing opposite a park bench where a white-haired human was sitting. This elderly woman was known for distributing broken crackers from a bag. A savvy pigeon was already lurking under the bench, waiting to pounce. Martha was tempted to stay, but when she saw poor, charred Phoenix dragging himself toward her, the prospect of watching him swim the Hudson won out.

  “This way,” she said, taking wing again.

  Staggering after her, Phoenix wished he’d been electrocuted like Tyrone. He could tell he wasn’t going to last much longer, and having to drag his burned and battered body along was agony. Better just to throw himself in the river, he decided. But as he was about to do so Martha called out, “Right over there.”

  She was pointing her beak at the next pier. Phoenix blinked some more, trying to bring it into focus. Pilings that looked like the pines in his woods supported a long, low, dilapidated building that jutted out over the river. The windows were dirty or broken, and there were holes in the sagging roof.

  “Ten to one it’ll get torn down or fixed up before long,” Martha told him. “There’s an old, half-submerged dock at the end. I’ll meet you there.”

  This news gave Phoenix a second wind, and as Martha flew out toward the end of the pier, he headed for the pier building’s entrance: a huge sliding door that proved easy to slip under. In the shadowy interior, wooden shipping crates were stacked up to the filmy windows on both long sides. A strange chittering emanated from them. In the central open space was a steel drum with a pile of books and newspapers and magazines beside it, but Phoenix never made it that far. There was something so creepy about the rustling and chittering that he turned tail and slipped back under the big door into the daylight.

  He checked the far side of the pier. A rough wooden beam ran the length of it. There was quite a drop from the beam to the water, so he hugged the side of the structure as he made his way along. His scorched footpads picked up several splinters, but he finally made it to the end of the pier, where a narrow ramp led down to the dock.

  “See?” said Martha, who was perched atop a nearby piling.

  The dock really was half-submerged. As soon as he got down to it, Phoenix scrambled over to the sunken side, submerging himself. The icy water was the most intense relief of his life. After a few moments he took a sip. The water was a little salty, but drinkable. While he was quenching his thirst, a wave swept over him. After the initial shock he found that his eyes actually felt better for the washing.

  “Ready to go?” Martha asked.

  “Go where?” he said.

  “New Jersey.”

  At this particular spot the Hudson was over a mile across, and from such a low vantage point—Phoenix’s head was just above water—he couldn’t even see to the other side. Squirrels can swim, but they’re far too light to swim long distances.

  “I’d drown before I got halfway,” he said dismally.

  “You mean you’re not even going to try?”

  “Sorry.”

  This was deeply disappointing to Martha, but as she flew away her mind quickly turned to broken crackers. Her departure was so abrupt that Phoenix didn’t even have a chance to thank her for bringing him here. The water really did feel glorious. But it was very cold, and eventually he had to creep back onto the dry end of the dock. As soon as the sun warmed him up, his body began to throb again, so he waded back into the water to renumb himself.

  As he repeated this procedure, the sun sank closer to New Jersey and turned redder and redder, as if it too had been scalded. With the day about to end, he couldn’t help thinking back on how it began. Getting a packet of smoked almonds from Tyrone’s uncle, then strolling to the pond with Giselle. If only he’d taken his parents’ warnings to heart instead of making himself “easy pickings” for Walter! Then he would still be home watching this very sunset with Giselle rather than suffering torments of pain at the end of a pier on a human-infested island. Every moment he was feeling weaker. He usually had ten snacks a day, minimum—but today he’d had nothing, not even the smoked almonds he’d washed in the pond.

  He wondered if there was anything to eat up in that creepy pier. But just as he was getting desperate enough to go look, he heard voices and dashed back to the sunken side of the dock. With only his eyes and ears above water, he watched two creatures descend the ramp. In the dimming daylight he wasn’t quite sure what they were. But when they reached the dock a shudder ran through him. Those ugly worm-tails. They were just like the creature he’d seen rooting through garbage in that container near the humans’ watering hole!

  “So beautiful,” said one of the rats.

  “Another day dying,” murmured the other.

  The two rats crouched side by side watching the sunset, much as Phoenix had just imagined him and Giselle doing. His shuddering turned to shivering. What had he ever done to deserve this fate? Pierced by a talon, dropped from the sky, burnt to a crisp, and now freezing to death. If only the sunset would hurry up and end so the repulsive creatures would leave!

  “What are those long, skinny clouds?” asked the first rat, who sounded female.

  “They’re from airplanes,” said the other, who was very soft-spoken but sounded male. “They’re called contrails.”

  “Oh, look at that big boat! Isn’t it majestic?”

  “I think it’s called a ship.”

  Ship or boat, its wake created what looked like a tidal wave to Phoenix, and it was coming straight at him. He tried to cling to the rotting wood. But the wave swept him off his end of the dock. As it dragged him under the pier, he managed to grab one of the supports. But when he tried to climb it, he found it wasn’t much like a pine tree after all. It had no bark and was so slick he slipped and splashed back into the water. Though the wake had passed, leaving the water calm, he could see that his only hope was the half-submerged dock, now some distance away. As he thrashed toward it, he could feel the last of his strength ebbing. He spat out some water and cried, “Help!” but the cry was feeble, and as water refilled his mouth, he realized his ordeal was finally over.

  6

  ROQUEFORT

  THE TWO RATS WATCHING THE sunset from the dock were actually brother and sister. Beckett was weak-eyed from poring over periodicals, but his hearing was as sharp as Lucy’s, and they both heard the feeble cry and swiveled around.

  Rats are good swimmers. Very good, in fact. They’ve even been known to swim through long sewer pipes and pop up in humans’ toilets. Neither Lucy nor Beckett would
have done anything so unsavory—they were wharf rats, not sewer rats—but Lucy often took dips off this dock on hot days.

  Unfortunately, it was quite dark under the pier at this point, and not even Lucy’s sharp eyes picked out Phoenix’s head before it sank for the last time. But all day long Phoenix’s luck had been a curious mixture of good and bad. It was bad luck to get snatched by a red-tailed hawk, but good luck that Walter was decent enough to withdraw the talon from his shoulder. It was bad luck to get dropped from the sky high over Manhattan, but good luck to land in a leafy sycamore. Bad luck that the new pavement beneath the tree was steaming hot, good luck that it was fairly soft. It was bad luck now to get swept off the half-submerged dock by the wake from a passing boat, or ship, but good luck that the wake bounced off the stone embankment and soon came swooshing back, returning him to the same dock.

  Lucy and Beckett wasted no time in dragging the soggy body onto the higher end of the dock. Beckett pronounced Phoenix dead, but this didn’t keep Lucy from putting her snout right on his to suck the water out of his lungs. It actually worked. Phoenix coughed up water and sputtered something unintelligible before passing out in pure exhaustion.

  “Let’s get him home,” Lucy said.

  “But is he a rat?” Beckett asked in his hoarse whisper. “His snout’s not very pointy.”

  “Of course he’s a rat. And he needs attention. Look at that shoulder.”

  “What he needs is a last will and testament. Though he doesn’t look like he has much to leave anybody.”

  “Help me carry him to the crate, Beck.”

  “Are you crazy? Mort would have a fit.”

  Lucy couldn’t argue with this. She loved their father, Mortimer, but since the death of their mother he’d taken to drink, which brought out his temper. The reason Beckett’s voice was so weak was that Mortimer had throttled him for rustling pages when he’d been trying to sleep off a hangover. However, Lucy wasn’t going to worry about their father with this poor half-drowned creature in such dire condition. She grabbed Phoenix’s legs and started dragging him backward up the ramp.

  Beckett sighed. He much preferred mental exertion to the physical kind, but he had a soft spot for his sister, so he finally picked up Phoenix’s hind legs, and together they lugged him the rest of the way up the ramp and through a sizeable crack in the end of the pier.

  The noises that had given Phoenix pause earlier were rats moving around inside the shipping crates, which they used as homes. The crates near the tops of stacks were the most sought after, but with their load Lucy and Beckett were glad, for once, that they lived in a bottom crate. Theirs was particularly small, and crammed with books and magazines Beckett had borrowed from the pile by the steel drum. But at least their father wasn’t home.

  At the far end of the crate were their beds: three scuffed loafers. Beckett was flabbergasted that Lucy wanted to let this filthy thing convalesce in hers. But it was pointless to try to stop his sister when she set her mind on something, so he gave her a paw getting the creature into it. Phoenix barely fit. He was still shivering, so they tucked some rags around him. Lucy opened their larder—a dented cookie tin—and pulled out a piece of ripe cheese. When she held it under their guest’s snout, he didn’t react. Undeterred, Lucy kept waving the cheese in front of him. In time, his unimpressive whiskers quivered.

  As he came around, Phoenix’s first thought was that he was in the heavenly place where all nuts are shelled. He remembered drowning, so he knew he was dead. But as a horrible stench filled his nostrils it hit him he must have ended up in the other place.

  Opening his eyes confirmed this. His vision had improved, but it was only an added torture to see that he was stuffed into a leather restraint in a claustrophobic box with a pair of rats. One of them was holding the smelliest thing imaginable directly under his snout. He shut his eyes and tried not to breathe.

  “I’m not sure he likes Roquefort,” Lucy observed.

  “Good,” said Beckett, who was partial to it.

  Lucy went back to the tin and exchanged the Roquefort for a quarter slice of slightly moldy Swiss. When she held it under the patient’s snout, he tried to press himself deeper into the shoe.

  “Told you he’s not a rat,” Beckett said. “All rats like Swiss.”

  Lucy was inclined to agree, Swiss being her particular favorite. But all she said was, “His shoulder really doesn’t look good.”

  “No worse than the rest of him.”

  “I think we should take him to Mrs. P.”

  Phoenix moaned. The mention of his shoulder made it throb—and made him wonder if he was actually still alive.

  “Aren’t I dead?” he asked, cracking an eye.

  “As good as,” Beckett said quietly.

  “Are you warmer now?” Lucy asked.

  Phoenix was still shivering, but he did feel warmer, if hopelessly weak. Just getting words out was a major effort. He sucked in a few shallow breaths and asked: “What is this horrible place?”

  Lucy tail switched. “I know it’s a little cluttered,” she said defensively, “but it’s our home.”

  “You live in Gracie Mansion, I suppose?” Beckett added.

  “Sorry?” Phoenix said.

  Beckett repeated himself, but Phoenix had no idea what Gracie Mansion was. If he’d had the energy, he would have told them he lived in a pine tree in a beautiful wood. When the female asked what kind of rat he was, however, he managed to squeak, “I’m not a rat!”

  “Told you,” Beckett said.

  Phoenix drifted off again. Sometime later he was awakened by a different voice, harsher and a bit slurred: “What in the blue cheese is that?”

  “We pulled him out of the river, Father,” Lucy said.

  “Why?”

  “He was drowning.”

  Phoenix opened his eyes again. The father was another rat, of course, but even more repulsive than his kids. His close-cropped fur was stained and dirty, and half his naked tail was missing.

  “Why’d you drag him here?” the father said. “It’s not crowded enough? Yuck. He stinks, too.”

  “That’s not his fault,” Lucy said. “His fur must have gotten singed, then it got wet. That’s never a good combination.”

  Ill as he felt, Phoenix was mortified to think he smelled bad to a bunch of rats.

  “You’re not exactly rose petals, Mort,” murmured Beckett. “Sucking old beer cans again?”

  “None of your lip,” said the father. “Just get that thing out of here.”

  “I’m busy,” Beckett said.

  “With what?”

  “Reading.” Beckett was lounging on an open book.

  “That’s all meant for the drum, boyo,” the father said.

  The wharf rats collected books and magazines and newspapers to burn in the drum to take the chill off the pier in cold weather.

  “I’ll return everything by the first frost,” Beckett said.

  “What’s the point of deciphering that human dreck?”

  “What’s the point of anything?”

  “I’ll show you the point of something,” the father said, snatching up a chopstick. “Now make that thing disappear.”

  “We’re taking him to Mrs. P.,” Lucy said.

  “That old pack rat’s welcome to him,” Mortimer grumbled.

  “Come on, Beck, lend me a paw,” Lucy said.

  Beckett crawled grudgingly off his book. It looked like it would be easiest to leave Phoenix in the shoe, so Beckett picked up the toe, Lucy the heel. They hadn’t even reached the doorway when Beckett dropped his end, complaining of a pulled muscle.

  “Your beau can help you,” Beckett said, limping back to his book. “That’s one thing he’d be good for.”

  Lucy gave her brother an exasperated look. “Junior’s not my beau,” she said.

  “Your crush then. Whatever you call him.”

  Lucy walked out of the crate with a sniff, soon returning with a young male rat who was considerably more strapping th
an Beckett. But at the sight of Phoenix he shrank back, squealing, “What’s that?”

  “Lucy’s latest project,” Beckett said. “Enjoy.”

  “Please, Junior, just help me get him to Mrs. P.’s,” Lucy said, lifting the heel again.

  Junior’s name was really Augustus, but since it was also his father’s name, his parents called him Augustus Junior, which others shortened simply to Junior. Junior made a face but told Lucy to get the toe and took the heavier end of the shoe himself.

  “Good riddance,” her father muttered as they left the crate.

  Beckett considered following them, not relishing the prospect of being stuck alone with his father. But Mortimer quickly crawled into his shoe for a snooze, allowing Beckett to read in peace.

  7

  TASTELESS BROTH

  LUCY WAS AS GLAD TO get out of the crate as her father was to see her go. Junior lived in a beautiful, tip-top crate with an important father and a house-proud mother. Only in an emergency like this would Lucy have exposed Junior to her crummy home.

  It made her feel a little better that they were going to see Mrs. P., for being able to claim Pandora Pack-Rat—the oldest, wisest, and fattest rat on the pier—for a friend was a feather in Lucy’s cap. Mrs. P. lived on the ground floor too—but in her case by choice. After outliving her spouse and both their children, she’d reached an age and a weight that made climbing disagreeable, so she’d moved down from her penthouse to her current residence. It was the largest on the pier, consisting of six crates: four on the bottom floor, arranged in a square, and two upstairs. You entered a parlor furnished with satin cushions. In a back corner a stick for stirring paint served as a ramp to the two second-floor crates, which were occupied by a sewer rat she’d adopted named Oscar. The other bottom front crate was her “gallery.” Pack rats are great hoarders, and Mrs. P. had a lot of treasures, some collected in her spryer days, some inherited from a legendary great-uncle of hers. The crate behind the gallery was where she kept her cheeses, mostly cheddars. Among rats, being fat is a sign of health and prosperity, and having a whole crate just for cheeses was an unheard-of luxury. But since she could cure almost any ailment, no one begrudged Mrs. P. her cushy lifestyle—except maybe Mortimer. Whenever he asked her for headache pills, she would just smile and advise less pub crawling.