The Orphan and the Mouse (18 page)

Mary had never been so cold. To stay warm, she exercised—running in circles in the darkness, tripping and stumbling over comestibles that at any other time she would have been delighted to sample.

What kept her from losing heart was thinking of Stuart Little. He had also been trapped in an electric refrigerator, he had also exercised to keep warm, and he had emerged with only a case of bronchitis . . . whatever that was.

Even knowing the story of Stuart, Mary was startled by the noise, the rush of air, and the brilliant light when at last the door was opened. For a moment, she was blind, and then she saw to her joy and relief that it was the human pups looking in at her. The plan had worked! They had followed the trail of ink!

Caro spoke first. “Oh, dear, you must be nearly frozen!”

“Well, I am, as a matter of fact,” said Mary.

“Poor little critter,” said Jimmy. “I think it's hysterical.”

“Who are you calling ‘critter'?” asked Mary.

“It wants to tell us something,” said Caro.

“You're right about that,” said Mary.

The boss's hiding place was in a separate space behind a door at the top of the refrigerator box. If the children didn't open the door and look inside, all Mary and Andrew's efforts had been in vain. Anxious to convey this last bit of intelligence, Mary stretched to the utmost on her hind legs and extended her forepaws to point out the door.

“Its paws are blue!” said Jimmy.

“That's just the ink,” said Caro. “I think it wants us to look in the freezer.”

“Freezer—that's it!” Mary squeaked, and now—work done—she sneezed and began to shiver in earnest. She would not wait to see the human pups' reaction when they looked inside. She had to warm up soon or risk falling sick. So she dropped lightly from one shelf to the next until she reached the floor.

“Wait!” Caro looked down. “Why did you leave us the key? Where is Charlie—do you know? Is Mrs. George in trouble? Is it . . . is it like the Aesop's fable?”

Cold as she was, Mary turned back and studied the pup that loomed above her.
I wonder if she is considered attractive
, Mary thought. To mice, all humans—with their gross size, strange allocation of fur, inadequate ears, and complete lack of tail and whiskers—looked similar and similarly ugly. And their smell, which was comforting at a distance, was rank when you got close.

For an instant, Mary questioned her decision to help humans at all, but then her eyes met Caro's and she saw kindness, intelligence, and . . . yes, wonder.

“I would answer if only you could understand,” she said. “And I would ask you questions of my own. Who is Louisa May Alcott? And why do humans kill mice but feed predators?”

Caro looked at Jimmy. “The mouse is talking to us, Jimmy. I know it it is. If only we could understand.”

“If only you could,” said Mary. “Now look in the hiding place; don't trust the boss, and scurry safe—both of you!”

Then she spun around, flipped her tail, and disappeared into the gap between the cupboard doors.

“She's leaving!” With her pinkie finger, Caro waved good-bye, but she was too late; already the soft gray form was gone. “Where is it going, do you think?”

“Search me,” Jimmy said. “Maybe there's a whole kingdom of 'em in the walls.”

“Do you really think so?” For a moment, Caro was so charmed by the thought, she forgot where she and Jimmy were standing and why.

Jimmy shrugged. “After all that's happened today, why not? But look, we've got to hurry, Caro. Ready?”

Caro nodded. Jimmy reached for the handle and pulled open the freezer door. Refrigerator freezers were becoming widespread in 1949, and corporations were stepping up to provide people with foods to fill them. Besides two aluminum trays filled with ice, Mrs. George's contained three boxes of Birds Eye frozen peas, two cans of Minute Maid frozen orange juice concentrate, and a stack of square packets full of something—meat, probably—wrapped neatly in white butcher paper.

Caro shook her head, disappointed. Jimmy said, “I don't get it.”

“Unless . . . ?” Feeling bold, Caro reached in and removed
one of the white packets. In her hand, the contents did not feel like meat but like sheets of paper. Caro couldn't risk looking inside. She knew she'd never rewrap the packet the same way, which would tell Mrs. George that someone had been there.

Wondering what more she could do, Caro noticed something else—an envelope on top of the second packet. Jimmy saw it, too, and didn't hesitate. He took it, detached the three paper clips, pulled it open, and looked.

What Caro saw inside the envelope almost stopped her heart in her chest—hundred-dollar bills! Caro had never in her life seen even one, and here was a whole stack!

Jimmy fumbled the envelope—in the process dropping a paper clip to the floor—and stared. “If this was ours, we could have anything . . . go anywhere . . . Caro, let's take it! Let's take it and run.
Please?
We wouldn't be orphans anymore. No one would know.”

Jimmy's blue eyes were wide, and for an instant, Caro's mind went blank. Then it flashed thoughts at her in frenzied succession:
Jimmy doesn't care about my scars. He likes me just because I'm Caro. He wants me to go with him
.

It's too scary. It's too dangerous
.

But all that money? We would be all right. We would be far away. We would be like a family, a family of two
.

Finally, she blinked and said, “We can't. It isn't ours.”

“It isn't hers, either, I bet—the old witch,” Jimmy said. “She stole it or something. Otherwise, why is she hiding it?”

Caro shook her head. No. She wouldn't believe it. In an
uncertain world, you had to believe in something, and Caro believed in Mrs. George. There was a good explanation for the money. There had to be.

Clank! Clank! Clank!
The sound of the alarm made them both jump.

“The boss—she's coming!” Hurriedly, Jimmy clipped the envelope and slammed the freezer shut.

“Wait—you missed one.” Caro retrieved the third paper clip from the floor, opened the freezer, and—fumbling a little—affixed it. Then she laid the white paper packet on top so that the freezer would look just as they had found it.

After that, the two children ran. In the doorway, Caro turned back and took one step inside. Gallico was asleep on the sofa once again. Mrs. George would be furious about the spilled ink, but she wouldn't associate it with the children. Was there any possible clue to their visit?

Nothing she could see.

Outside on the landing, Jimmy locked the door, and then, for a few seconds, the two stood and listened. All was quiet, so, on tiptoes, Caro and Jimmy hurried down the stairs.

Mrs. George had completed her Friday calls with unusual efficiency and thought she might indulge herself with a brief nap before dinner. The last few days had been difficult. With so much on her mind, she had not slept well.

Before going upstairs, Mrs. George paid a visit to the kitchen. There she reminded Mrs. Spinelli that the exterminators were coming after breakfast in the morning and the children would be spending the day at Fairmount Park. They would need packed lunches.

Mrs. Spinelli responded with her usual truculence. Ascending the stairs, Mrs. George thought certainly there must be a reliable cook somewhere with a more accommodating disposition. If such a person could be found, she would be quite happy to give Mrs. Spinelli her walking papers.

Upstairs in her apartment at last, Mrs. George advanced only a few steps before she spotted blue blotches on the carpet—ink, it looked like. What in the name of . . . ?

She turned back toward the door, surveyed her writing desk, the broken inkwell, the mess on the floor . . . and forgot all about taking a nap. She was wide awake now—and angry.

The cat! He knew he was in trouble, too. He was hiding. And Mrs. George knew where.

“Gotcha!” She reached under her bed, gripped the scruff of Gallico's neck, pulled him roughly into the light, and held him up.

He was too scared to protest. As expected, she found ink . . . but it was on his abdomen instead of his paws.

Why would that be?

Mrs. George dropped the cat to the carpet and aimed a kick, but Gallico was prepared and scooted back under the bed, out of her way.

“I'll deal with you later,” she said, and then returned to the parlor, where she knelt to examine the line of spots on the carpet and the wood floor. They looked like smudges, but they might have been animal tracks. Whatever they were, she now saw, they were too small to have been made by a cat.

Could it be those detestable mice?

The more she thought, the more likely that seemed. A mouse must have knocked over the ink bottle by chance, then made the tracks on its way to the kitchen in search of food.

Mrs. George was still angry. But there was some comfort in knowing the mice would get their just deserts in the morning. As for the cat, maybe he wasn't to blame for the ink, but she did not regret her outburst. Any decent cat would have done his job and caught the mice. Once again, Gallico had let her down.

Mrs. George's cleaning supplies were kept in the pantry closet beyond the kitchen. She retrieved what she needed—a bucket, detergent, a rag, rubber gloves—then went back to the parlor and began to scrub.

It was only when she was down on her hands and knees addressing the stain by the writing desk that she noticed something . . . another footprint outlined in blue ink. It had not been made by a cat or a mouse but by a shoe, and the shoe was not her own. It was a child's shoe, and it belonged to someone who had stolen into her apartment while she was out.