by Richard Peck
Then the front doorbell sounded through the house. We jumped.
Hardly anybody ever came to call. Mrs. Cranston and Camilla and Olive sat through long afternoons in their second-best clothes. They sat sideways on the settee because of their bustles, waiting for visitors who never came. They sat through whole dreary afternoons, corseted and alone.
The doorbell rang again.
“I’ll go,” said Louise, out of her chair, and her skirt. She could never wait to stick her nose into whatever might be happening.
“Curiosity killed the cat,” I called out to her. This is one of my favorite sayings. Beatrice would have scurried after her if I hadn’t given her one of my looks.
We sat on at the table, Beatrice and I. Mice hear better than humans. We should, with these ears. But only mere mumbling murmured down the house along the ancient trail in the walls blazed by mice before our time. We are a very old family, as I have said.
I kept Beatrice busy. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop. Yes, we have hands. There is talk of paws and claws, but look closer. We have hands, very skilled. I can thread a needle while you’re looking for the eye. I sew a fine seam, and Beatrice was learning. I tried to teach her what she’d need to know.
The kitchen clock struck another afternoon hour away. Which hour I do not know. We are not good with time. Through the wall Mrs. Flint’s kettle sang. She was putting cups on a tray to send upstairs. I was beginning to wonder where Lamont was. I am the oldest, and so the worries reach me first.
But at long last a sound of skittering came from far up our front passage. Then nearer skittering and gasping mouse breath. We set aside our needlework, Beatrice and I, as Louise burst in upon us. Somehow it seemed that Louise was either just coming or just going. It was hard for her to settle.
“You’ll never guess—”
“Skirt, Louise,” I said. Beatrice handed it to her.
Louise stepped into her skirt. “Is there any of that coffee left? I’m dry as a—”
“You’re keyed up enough without more coffee, Louise. Just watching you makes us jittery,” I said. “You skitter and we jitter. Sit down and tell us what we will never guess.”
She drew up a chair. “Where shall I start?”
“Who came to call?”
“Oh yes. A Mrs. Minturn.” Louise made big eyes at us.
“Not a local family,” I said.
“No, indeed. She came up from the city.” Louise tapped the table. “On the train.”
“Ah, if she is from New York City, she must be selling something,” I said. “Everything is for sale in New York City.”
“They showed her their hats, and she said they wouldn’t do,” Louise said.
“Was she selling hats?” Beatrice wondered.
“I’m not sure,” Louise said. “She was wearing an awful old shovel bonnet herself. It was rusty with age, and so was she. And, oh my, her veils were torn.”
“You seemed to get a good view of her, Louise,” I remarked.
“I was under that marble-topped table by the horsehair settee, right at their feet. But they wouldn’t have noticed me if I’d been sending up fl—”
“What was this woman’s business, Louise? This sounds like business to me.”
“Well, she was very businesslike,” Louise said. “But I’m not sure. She told them how they better dress if they were going to Europe. She said that bustles are over. Bustles are completely over in Europe. Nobody even remembers bustles.”
“Then what?”
Louise pressed a finger to her cheek. “Oh yes, then she had Olive walk up and down the room. Up and down. Up and down.”
“What for?”
“To see how Olive moved,” Louise explained.
“How did Olive do?” Beatrice asked.
“Not very well. She ran into things and caught her toe in the rug. You know how Olive is around her mother. And Mrs. Cranston was jumpy as a cat. I was right there by one of her shoes, and she kept tapping it. She very nearly mashed me into the carpet. ‘We must give Olive Her Chance,’ she kept saying. Over and over like she does.”
“How did all this end, Louise?” I asked, because she was going on forever. “Put it in a nutshell.”
“I was right there by one of her shoes.”
“Money,” Louise said.
“Money?” said Beatrice.
Louise nodded. “Mrs. Minturn said it would take money to unlock the doors of Europe. Nobody in Europe is interested in poor Americans. No young man is. Evidently they have enough poor people of their own.”
We pondered all this. “Then what happened?” Beatrice said.
“Well, Mrs. Minturn just sat there with her hands in a bunch until Mrs. Cranston reached down for her reticule, which was just a whisker away from me. She handed her some money.”
“How much?” Beatrice inquired.
“Well, how would I know?” Louise said. “She didn’t show it to me. But it was quite a wad. What do you think this all means, Helena?”
The four eyes of my sisters fell upon me. But I was spared answering. Lamont exploded out of the front passage and was all over us. Lamont—flinging himself on the floor, right there on the rag rug. His eyes rolled like a mad horse. His underbelly showed pale as paper through his fur.
We were all on our feet. A chair fell over. A valuable chair.
Beatrice stifled a scream and pointed. “Oh, Lamont, where is the rest of your tail?”
CHAPTER THREE
The Haystack
WHERE INDEED? LAMONT writhed on the rag rug with far less tail to lash. The tip oozed. I couldn’t tell how much was missing, but he had a stubby look. He was squealing till you couldn’t hear yourself think. Somebody had to take charge, and I am the oldest.
“On your feet, Lamont,” I said.
Louise wrung her hands. “Shouldn’t we dip his stub into some rubbing alcohol or something? Don’t we have ointment?”
“He is more scared than hurt,” I said. “Up, Lamont.”
He lolled and squealed, and I untied my apron.
“Where are you going, Helena?” Louise and Beatrice gibbered.
“Out,” I said. “Lamont and I are going to get his tail back.”
Lamont stopped in mid-squeal. Silence fell. He wouldn’t meet my eye. He’d have slunk off to his room if he dared.
“Don’t even think about it, Lamont. We are going for your tail. I hope you remember where you lost it.”
Lamont cowered, but I marched him out of the room.
All the way up through the walls I bristled with things I felt like saying to Lamont, things he needed to hear. We turned into the passage under the Upstairs Cranstons’ front hall. Our front door is a crack in the foundation under their porch.
We were outdoors then, under the porch. I was on all fours too, since you can move faster that way, and it’s expected. When we crept out from under the spirea bushes, we were in open country, so we needed to keep one eye on the sky.
From the rear Lamont looked ridiculous without his complete tail. He paused and put a finger to his chin, though he has no chin. He was stalling.
“Which way to the tail, Lamont?”
I can read his mind. He considered leading me off on some wild-goose chase. But then he thought better of it and started through the grass around the side of the house.
Even when the grass is new-mown, we are up to our eyes in it. And it teems with beetles and earthworms and pesky ticks. Ticks are a trial to us. I was forever picking ticks out of Lamont’s fur.
We rounded the house, and there was the rain barrel.
We turned away from it. Now down the slope of the lawn the barn stood tall. We were making for the kitchen garden.
I was right on Lamont’s heels along a row of spring onions. “Lamont, did you go in the barn?”
“Certainly not,” he said over his shoulder, though he doesn’t really have shoulders. “Gideon wanted to, but I said we better never.”
Gideon. Of course. Gideon McSorley w
as a mouse a class or two ahead of him and Lamont’s so-called best friend. Not a good influence.
“I notice that when you lost your tail, Gideon left you high and dry. He didn’t see you safely home, though you were in a sorry state. Some friend.”
But this is not reasoning a boy follows.
We were practically in the barn’s shadow now. There was a whiff of horse, and something far more worrisome than that. “Lamont, are you certain—”
“Never went near the place,” he muttered.
Only a fool would. A cat lives in the barn, to keep down the vermin. And we are the vermin.
At one time there’d been a whole litter of cats in there, but only one remained. An old she-cat without a name. Barn cats aren’t named.
It was this very she-cat who got Papa. Yes, our papa. In a scene too terrible to tell, she pounced. In the dust of the barn lot Papa had come across an ear of Indian corn. He could make a meal out of Indian corn and had just started through the second row of kernels when she pounced, all teeth and claws. I can’t bear to say any more than that. Don’t ask me.
That wicked old she-cat no longer has a tooth in her head, but she could gum you to death. I suppose if she caught you just right, she could get the tail off you. She was kill-crazy, of course. Cats are.
Past the barn, Lamont slowed to a stop. Now it was the haystack ahead of us—dead ahead, high and yellow.
“Lamont, tell me you didn’t.” I closed my eyes.
“Gideon said—”
“If Gideon said, ‘Let us go down and fling ourselves into the Hudson River,’ I suppose you’d do it. Oh, Lamont, you foolish, foolish mouse.”
“Well, I won’t do it again,” he said in a squeaky voice. He was at the age when a boy’s voice is especially squeaky.
“No,” I said, “and you won’t grow another tail either.”
He wanted to turn back then, and who could blame him? Snakes live in the haystack. The haystack seethes with them. Poisonous snakes. Copperheads, and they are very active in the springtime after their long hibernation. It is said that copperheads are very shy of humans. But we are not humans. We are dinner, and the haystack was alive with death.
“We were just playing hide-and-seek,” Lamont muttered. “Me and Gideon.”
“Gideon and I.”
“Gideon and I. Then over there by the haystack something clamped down on my tail. I shot away—like a rocket. I didn’t feel a doggone thing. But when I looked back . . . there it was, starting to coil, with my tail in its mouth and its eyes staring.”
A chill slithered down my spine.
“And where was Gideon then?” I inquired.
“Gideon said he was needed at home.”
The haystack glowed golden in the setting sun. Lamont pointed. “Look!”
Right over there on the bald ground beside the lowest overhang of haystack, something—
“By golly, it’s my tail!” Lamont flung himself forward.
Was it? Something was there, no bigger than a twig off a tree, and gray. Half a mouse tail is not a meal for a copperhead, but—
“Lamont, no!” I cried after him. “It’s a trap!”
He skidded to a stop. I was on his heels. We were this close to that haystack, and our doom.
“It’s a trap, Lamont, baited by your own tail,” I cried. “Fall back, Lamont!”
But he wanted his tail, and we’d come for it. He squeaked a yearning little squeak. And my instinct took over. Something had to.
I cut and ran toward the haystack, pounding past my hapless brother. Onward I plunged till the whole world was haystack ahead.
At the last second, I swerved away, defying death and tempting the serpent. In that instant, a hideous head struck out of the overhanging straw—those unblinking eyes, those fatal fangs. How patiently that copperhead had waited. How wise of the copperhead to know that Lamont would be back for his tail. The wisdom of the serpent. But I am smarter. I am Helena, the oldest.
Jaws snapped on the air behind me, and a hiss shivered the barn lot. I’d practically served myself up for that copperhead’s dinner, and all to give my brother a chance at his tail.
“Run for it, Lamont!” I shrieked, making a large circuit of the barn lot. And here Lamont came, with the end of his tail unfurling from his mouth.
At the last second, I swerved away, defying death.
We ran till we couldn’t, up the slope of the lawn. We were out of breath by the rain barrel, but that was no place to pause. In the shadow of the spirea we keeled over, gasping in the grass. But we could not tarry long there out in the open. The scudding clouds above us threw cat-shaped shadows across the yard.
“Lamont, this cannot go on. Even a cat has only nine lives, and we don’t have that many.” I was breathing hard. “I cannot keep saving you from yourself. The barn. The haystack. Where did you go as fast as you could scamper? Where, Lamont?!”
He hung his head. But he could make no answer, not with his tail in his mouth.
I MARCHED HIM home, and straight to my workbasket. Tying my apron about me, I rummaged for a needle and thread while Louise and Beatrice stood by, speechless. It was quite a long needle. All needles are long in the hand of a mouse.
“Bend over, Lamont,” I said.
And I sewed his tail back on him, while he squealed the house down.
You do what you can. But I have to say, that tail never really worked right again.
CHAPTER FOUR
When Night and Darkness Fell
AFTER SUCH A day, how could I sleep a wink? Louise and Beatrice and I shared a bedroom just over our dining room. Lamont had his own room, hollowed out next to ours and very messy. I stared at the ceiling. If I dropped off, I’d dream. And mice dream about only two things: cheese and time running out.
Maybe I dozed, because floating there before my sleeping self was a giant wedge of Stilton cheese, richly pale against a red sunset. A lovely, creamy Stilton—blue-veined, so it was about six weeks old. But my sleeping self looked closer. It was no Stilton cheese at all. It was no such thing. It was the haystack in the last red glow of sundown. And lurking in that haystack: unblinking eyes and hovering heads and one scaly coil after another.
I trembled awake. Something besides fear had stirred me. I looked to the matchbox beside me, Louise’s bed. There is nothing wrong with our eyesight. We see better in the dark than you do in daylight.
Louise eased back her scrap quilt and carefully, carefully slipped out of bed. She should know any little thing will wake me. I hardly sleep.
Her nightdress caught on her ears as she pulled it over her head. Now she was stepping around her chamber pot. It is a thimble with a dime for a lid. We have all sorts of uses for thimbles. That’s why they so often go missing from the workbaskets of humans. Lose a thimble? I expect we have it.
Stealthy Louise lifted her tail to keep from knocking over anything as she made for the door. I knew where she was going. On her little mouse feet she was heading up the walls to Camilla Cranston’s bedroom. Where else?
She’d shinny up the dust ruffle on Camilla’s bed. Then she’d show her little pointed face there at the foot. And they’d have one of their midnight chats. I saw her with my mind’s eye: Louise, listening, her tail arranged around her on Camilla’s counterpane.
I knew where Louise went when night and darkness fell. And she knew I knew, and she knew I didn’t like it. Of course, we’re all family. They were Cranstons Upstairs. We were Cranstons down here. But nothing good comes of too much mixing. And it isn’t fair. We understand their speech. They don’t understand a word of ours. Not a syllable. We hear all about their joys, their sorrows. They hear nothing of ours. Nothing.
Besides, I had joys and sorrows to share with Louise. Why was that not enough for her? Why was I not enough? I stared at the ceiling, and all my worries crowded round my matchbox.
Lamont, naturally. Always Lamont, thoughtless with death at every turn. The haystack. The barn. The hovering heads. The pouncing cats. The br
imming river and the busy road. The rain barrel.
I’d be worried into an early grave for trying to keep him out of his.
And now the Upstairs Cranstons, off to the ends of the earth, without a backward glance. Louise was bound to be lost without Camilla. Without Camilla she would droop and lose interest.
Two matchboxes over, Beatrice snuffled in her sleep. I say less about her, but she was a worry too. Meek to a fault was Beatrice. And though I didn’t want to say it—a little bit mousy.
Wonder and worry like to crowd me out of my bed. But I may have drifted into a dream then. I must have, because there before my sleeping self rose an enormous sunlit Stilton cheese, seething with snakes.
But any little thing will bring me around. I heard a familiar skitter. Louise was back. She slipped under her scrap quilt. The night vibrated with her thoughts. She was all a-tingle, the way she gets.
She knew I never really sleep. “Well, it’s all happening,” she said, quiet because of Beatrice. “And sooner than we thought.” She muttered near my ear. I felt the faint breeze of her breath. “They have ordered new hatboxes, and brought the steamer trunks down from the attic.”
We pictured that: the steamer trunks being bumped down the stairs from the batty attic.
“They’re to have new clothes from the skin out,” whispered Louise. “As Mrs. Minturn said, they haven’t a stitch that will do. Even corset covers. Everything. Seamstresses will come and sew night and day. The Upstairs Cranstons are going to London, England, and so they will need ball gowns. Even Mrs. Cranston.”
Mrs. Cranston in a ball gown? I hoped she wouldn’t show her bare shoulders to the world. They are very beefy, Mrs. Cranston’s shoulders.
“Off they will go to the far side of creation,” Louise sobbed slightly into my ear. “And leave nothing behind but empty rooms.”
I did not reply, of course. What was there to say? Then Louise slept, and whimpered in her sleep. And there was I again with only my worries for company.
I tossed and turned on the human-hair mattress of my matchbox. Mrs. Flint suffered from thinning hair, and so there were always stray strands drifting around the kitchen floor—more than enough to stuff four mattresses. How handy we mice are for keeping things tidy. I would hate to think of the world without us.
