Maggie & Oliver or a Bone of One's Own

by Valerie Hobbs

  She thought about Daniel. She wondered what his plan was and what part she would play in it. She had come to like Daniel. He had given her food and a place to sleep.

  But could she trust a person who would harm an animal and think nothing of it?

  Maggie got up and found her way at last to the little park where the ducks, unaware of her plight, sailed into their day. She wandered along the paths, looking for Lucky, both sad and happy that he was not there. One of them at least had found that magical place called home.

  Would she ever find it again? Had Madame’s home ever truly been hers? It was a fine house, as orderly and neat as the bun at the back of Hannah’s head, and Maggie wondered why she did not miss it more. She missed Hannah, she missed her little bed, the tree outside her window, the owl, but she missed Madame not one whit.

  A home had to be more than bricks piled one upon another and a dust rag in one’s hand.

  She took out her locket and, opening it, gazed for a long time at the lady she hoped was her mother. The picture was very small, but still Maggie thought she could see in the lady’s face the shape of her own. But the eyes were sad eyes, not full of life, as Maggie’s still were. How long they would be was the question. Caring for one small person, one self, in the busy greatness of a city was harder than she had ever imagined.

  Well, she hadn’t imagined it at all. She had taken for granted her place at Hannah’s side.

  Had Hannah loved her? A little, perhaps more than a little. She had been a kind and patient teacher. But as far back as Maggie could remember, she was never rocked, never hugged, never kissed on the cheek. These quite ordinary things seemed as necessary as food on the table and shelter in the rain, but she did not have them.

  She sat on the bench, swinging her legs. Her boots were falling apart, the soles coming loose at the toe. Her stockings were torn, her coat fraying at the cuffs. If she had a mirror, she knew she would find a dirty face in it, and hair like a rat’s nest.

  When a lady came into the park pushing a pram, Maggie jumped up and asked very politely if the lady might be in need of a nanny. The lady looked horrified, then her face softened. “What is your name, child?” she said.

  When Maggie told her, the lady opened her coin purse and offered Maggie a nickel.

  Maggie put her hands behind her back. “I would rather work than beg,” she said.

  “That’s very commendable, Maggie,” said the lady. “And I’m sure you will find work. But meanwhile, you must eat. You are a growing girl.”

  Maggie dropped her head. “Yes, ma’am.”

  The lady laid the nickel on the bench. “Don’t be proud, my dear,” she said. “Pride never fed an empty stomach.” As she walked away, Maggie looked inside the pram. An infant dressed all in pink with a pink face and pink blanket lay like a rosebud waiting to open.

  If Maggie had one wish, she would wish that she could exchange places with that infant. But what a terrible thing to do to an innocent baby. Far better to clutch the precious nickel in her hand and go in search of a meal.

  “Thank you!” she cried after the retreating figure of her benefactress. Birds began to sing. Or had she just begun to hear them? Barren trees seemed bright with the promise of leaves. The pond sparkled. The ducks’ eyes sparkled. Everything sparkled. When the church bells struck the hour and she knew she had nowhere to be, Maggie’s heart danced with a fierce feeling of freedom that she had never known.

  Off she went at a brisk pace toward the marketplace. Automobile horns rang merrily; trolleys were filled with good-hearted, happy people; wagons were pulled by gentle, well-fed horses and driven by fathers who dearly loved their children. The people she passed were smiling, or if not smiling, then only deep in thought. The world blossomed with goodness and hope, and all because of the nickel in her hand.

  At the bread shop she bought two buns. The aroma was free. At the apple stand, the seller eyed Maggie suspiciously until Maggie produced a penny for a big, dark red apple. “God bless,” said the woman, and that was free as well.

  At the cheese stand, she stood staring at a brick of bright yellow cheddar until the good man behind the counter offered her a thin, small slice for free. It burst in her mouth like sunshine. She bought a penny’s worth, tucking it into her pouch along with her buns, the bit of meat from the night before, and the apple. A feast.

  She badly needed a comb, but when she found one tossed in a box of assorted barrettes and hairclips, the price was two cents, a penny more than she had left. While the seller’s back was turned, Maggie quickly combed her hair. And that, too, was free.

  She left the marketplace with her pouch full, a penny in her pocket, and the feeling that life was a fine thing to have, a gift for which she thanked her mother.

  Maggie had no doubt that her mother was no longer alive. She would not have the locket otherwise. A woman desperate enough to leave her infant on a stranger’s doorstep would certainly have sold the locket for food.

  No, Maggie felt quite certain that whoever had laid her there did so in the hope that Maggie would be well cared for, and only because she herself was dying. She could not bear the thought that the pretty woman in the locket did not love her.

  High above the Commons, clouds parted and the sun appeared as if for the very first time. What snow was left along the walkways began to melt. Beneath the earth crocuses yawned and stretched. A robin’s chick came out of its egg and blinked into life; somewhere a baby took its first wobbling steps.

  Maggie sat on the edge of a joyful fountain taking a bite of cheese, a bite of bun, and then, sneakily, a bite of apple. It was bad manners not to cut the apple, to eat it in public like a horse, but she had no knife, and the apple, as any good apple will, invited her to just go ahead and eat it.

  Never in her life had she had such a happy day, not even on her birthday when Hannah gave her the stockings she had on.

  She sat warming herself in the sun, watching children play ring-around-the-rosy while their mothers looked on. When a black dog with yellow eyes came up and sniffed her pouch, she gave him the bit of meat she had saved for Lucky.

  Surely, Lucky was home already and had eaten by now.

  This Is the End, My Friend

  Oliver lay with his snout on his paws, thinking about rats. They were all around him, pushing their ratty little noses into corners, scrabbling their ratty little feet into every nook and cranny of the kitchen. They had come out in twos and threes and then fives and sixes, giving Oliver the once-over and declaring him harmless.

  He wasn’t exactly happy about being thought harmless, so he got up and growled a couple of times. But even to himself he did not sound convincing, and the rats went about their business.

  He was thinking about rats because it was hard not to think about something that slithered and sniffed around you, that even climbed over you as if you were not there. The thought of eating one sickened him. But he knew that if he didn’t, eventually he would die.

  How a dog went about dying was a mystery to him. He supposed he could just lie on his side and await the end, so that is what he did. The end went on and on and on, and meanwhile he got so hungry that he began to think that a rat roasted might not be quite as bad as a rat raw.

  He fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed about the little girl who called him Lucky. He saw her twirling in the rain, looking up at the sky with her mouth open like a goose and laughing. Then she was running through the rain with her arms wide and he was running behind her, bounding along like a rabbit. He ran so hard that he woke himself up, his four paws scrambling on the floor.

  He had chosen the small, dark room to die in. That way he would be no trouble, even to those who gave him the most trouble. When they found him dead, they could shut the door and be done with him. He’d be on his way to Bertie and wouldn’t care.

  Unless there was one afterlife place for humans and a different one for dogs. But the thought of that just made him more miserable, so he got up and wandered through the kitchen, throug
h the rats, and into the place where the tables were. The rats were happier in the kitchen, if rats could indeed be happy, and so Oliver had the room to himself. He decided to die there instead of in the room with the cold dirt floor. But all he did was fall into a dreamless sleep.

  * * *

  Morning seeped into the room like gray soup. The rats that had fattened themselves on a bag of flour and whatever crumbs they could forage were washing their snouts with their little paws and yawning.

  A key turned in the back door lock, and the rats disappeared in a blink of Oliver’s eye.

  The man had returned. He stood looking down at the flour scattered everywhere and the little paw prints circling through it.

  “A fine job you’ve done,” he said, shaking his head at Oliver. “I should give you a good beating for this. But I am a patient man. Unlike my partner, I do not beat dogs or children.”

  He knelt beside Oliver. He took Oliver’s snout into his hand. He made Oliver look into his eyes. “You are a ratter, my friend. Get it into your head. You are a ratter. A ratter chases rats, a ratter kills rats, and a ratter, if he’s smart, eats rats.”

  He shook his finger at Oliver. “Beware of Adolph,” he said. “Adolph is not a patient man.”

  Oliver was shooed out of the table room and into the small room, where he spent the longest, most boring day of his life. He almost wished the rats were awake so he could chase a few for fun.

  Like most of us, Oliver had a treasure chest of cherished memories that he could open any time he liked. In his grief and misery, he had quite forgotten about it.

  He opened it now as he lay on the cold, uncompromising ground, and there they were, spread out before him: choosing his own birthday present at the butcher shop, playing hide-and-seek with a squirrel (the squirrel hid so well that Oliver never found him), getting his back scratched, staying out all night with a passing stray (though he had made Bertie cry), being brushed and brushed and brushed.

  He remembered when Bertie had chosen him out of his litter. He remembered the smile on her face when she held him up with his little feet dangling. He remembered the touch of her hand on his head when she said, “Oh, Oliver, you pesky dog.”

  There were rocks in the box along with the treasure: getting his nose pinched in a mouse trap, being scolded for stealing a ham on Easter Sunday (which he thought now was worth the scolding), watching the wagon that took Bertie away, spending his first night alone.

  * * *

  That evening, the rats’ menu changed. Because the flour had been put into a lidded box, the rats chewed their way into a canvas bag of carrots and dumped a tin of sugar onto the floor. After eating all the carrots, they rolled in the sugar and licked each other clean.

  They were awful creatures, but they knew how to have a good time. And, really, when you got to know them a little, you could say they weren’t unfriendly. They were busy, that’s all.

  One of them came up to Oliver and, standing on its back feet, tried to converse with him in its ratty language. It seemed to want Oliver to join in the fun, but when he took a lick of sugar, they scurried away screeching.

  * * *

  In came two men, the one Oliver knew and one that he didn’t. The one he didn’t know had arms and legs like fat sausages and a sour look on his face.

  “So this is our fine ratter,” he said, scowling down at Oliver.

  “I thought he might be our ratter, Adolph,” said the other one. “But he isn’t. Maybe he’s afraid of rats. In any case, he’s no good to us. We might as well let him go.”

  At the word go, Oliver’s ears perked up.

  Adolph rubbed his chin. “There could be some other use for him,” he said. “People like their beef, but beef is costly. I say we make a nice dog meat stew. Lots of garlic and spices. They’ll never know the difference.”

  Oliver looked from one face to the other, trying to learn the fate being revealed in words he couldn’t understand.

  “What did I tell you, my friend?” said the first man, looking down at Oliver with his arms crossed. “You had your chance to guard the food. Now you must be the food.”

  Taking Oliver by his handkerchief, he dragged him into the small room and closed the door.

  “AW-OOOO!” wailed Oliver, in his loudest outburst since the disappearance of Bertie. “AW-OOOO! AW-OOOO!”

  Leaping against the door, he cried “AW-OOOO! AW-OOOO!” again and again, while pots clanged and dishes rattled and people cooked and people ate and plates got scraped and the rats stirred in their sleep. “AW-OOOO! AW-OOOO!” howled Oliver. Even his poor, empty stomach begged for him to stop, but he would not. “AW-OOOO! AW-OOOO! AW-OOOO!” he cried.

  A Rat by Any Other Name

  From the shadows, Maggie watched as the workers came out of the factory and down the steps. Daniel came last. He looked up the street and down the street.

  “Hey, girl!” he said.

  Maggie stepped out of the shadows. “My name is Maggie,” she said. “You can call me by my name.”

  “It’s good you’re here,” said Daniel, as if a bird or the wind had spoken and not a living, breathing girl. “I’ve been working on my plan all day.” He pointed to his temple. “In here. It’s a wicked good one.”

  Maggie frowned. “Wicked?”

  “Just a sayin’. It’s devilish good, is what I mean. A smart plan.”

  He waited for her to say something. She was always asking questions.

  “You can’t be a sissy for this plan to work. You gotta be brave.”

  Biting her tongue, Maggie waited.

  “Are you brave, girl?”

  “Maggie,” she said.

  Daniel rolled his eyes. “Are you brave, Maggie?”

  Maggie considered. Was she brave? She thought she might be. She was learning to be. “Yes,” she said.

  “And can you keep a secret?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  His eyes lit up as he leaned closer. “We’re going after the treasure!”

  Maggie’s questions began to tumble out, one after another. There was no way to stop them, and out of her mouth they came: Where is it? Is it in a big box? Is there gold? Jewels? Where did it come from? Did it come from a pirate ship?

  The more she asked, the more excited she became. Her imagination took flight, swooping her away to a place where reason never lived.

  “You’ll know soon enough,” said Daniel. “But first, supper.”

  Maggie took out her pouch. “I have some cheese and part of an apple—”

  “That ain’t supper,” said Daniel. “Meat is supper.”

  So Maggie knew right where they were going. She followed Daniel as before, winding through dark and empty streets, stopping with him at the entrance to the alley.

  “This time it’s your turn,” he said. “I’ll keep watch.”

  They crept down the alley toward the light, staying close to the brick wall. Nearing the door, Maggie began to hear laughter, loud talk, the rattle of dishes, and the cry of a miserable dog. “AW-OOOO! AW-OOOO!”

  “That’s Lucky!” cried Maggie, as Oliver howled and jumped against the door.

  How did Maggie know? She had never heard Oliver cry. And yet she knew the howling dog was the one she called Lucky. For days, he had been running loose around the city. Then he disappeared. If he’d had a home, he’d have gone to it that first night. Lucky wasn’t home. He was here.

  “Lucky is in there!” she said, pulling on Daniel’s sleeve.

  “Don’t be a goon,” he said. “That’s just some dog.”

  “Why would they lock him up?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No!”

  Daniel shook his head and said what he usually said. “You don’t know nuthin’, do ya? You never ate no dog?”

  “No!” cried Maggie, horrified.

  “Well, it’s not as good as beef,” he said with a shrug. “’Less’n it’s a pup. But dog and kidney pie? That’s the best.”

  Maggie’s stomach reco
iled. “We’ve got to save Lucky,” she begged.

  Daniel shook his head. “That’s not in my plan.”

  Maggie stood with her chin lifted and her fists on her hips, her blue eyes blazing. “If you won’t help Lucky, I won’t help you,” she said.

  Daniel grimaced. “Then I’ll get somebody else,” he said, but he didn’t sound sure of himself.

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  They stood nose to nose, challenging each other to back down. At last Daniel said, “All right, I’ll help you get the stupid dog. Then you do everything I say. And no questions.”

  “It’s a deal,” said Maggie.

  “Here’s what we do,” said Daniel, hatching another plan on the spot. It took him no time to tell it.

  Daniel went to the door, while Maggie waited near it in the shadows.

  “Sir?” called Daniel. “Hey, sir!”

  A man wearing a tall white hat and an apron streaked with gravy stuck out his head. “What do you want, boy?”

  “I found something,” said Daniel, crooking his arm. “Out here. I think it’s something gold. Or silver. I can’t tell in the dark.”

  “What?” said the man.

  “And it’s heavy,” said Daniel. “Come and look!”

  As the man stepped outside, Maggie slipped from the shadows and into the kitchen, past the surprised dishwasher, and straight to the rattling door. She threw it open, and there stood Lucky.

  Oliver cocked his head. The girl? He had expected the man. In tail-wagging joy, he nearly knocked her over.

  “Run, Lucky!” she cried as she fled across the kitchen, Oliver on her heels. Streaking past Adolph, they ran headlong up the alley.

  Maggie could hear Daniel running to catch up, the beat of his boots and a pair of heavier ones, Daniel laughing, a man cursing.

  Daniel caught up with Maggie, but Oliver, faster than both, had gone out of sight. They ran and ran until they could run no more. Adolph, who was fat and slow, had lost them.