The Christmas Rat

For Richard and Katherine

Kids always say they love Christmas vacation. First of all, there's no school, so you get to sleep in and just hang out with friends. Plus, there's lots of staying up late watching rented movies and TV. Then your parents aren't around much because they're busy with work or holiday stuff. And there's candy, too. I mean, tons of it. Finally, there's presents. It really is the best time.

But last Christmas, that's not the way it was. For me, anyway. It was . . . scary.

Friday, December the eighteenth, the day vacation began, was party time in my middle school from morning till three o'clock let-out. Mystery gifts (stupid stuff), dumb games, and all this talk about getting together over the break. At the end of the day it was nothing but, “Call me!” “See ya!” and, “Have a cool yule!”

O
n Saturday it snowed
. I mean,
really
snowed. Deep, white, and clean. A blizzard, I guess. The snow blew so hard you didn't go out unless you had to. I didn't because I had already bought gifts for my parents. Some handkerchiefs for my mom. A scarf for my dad. I know, they weren't so great but, I wanted to be sure I had money left to buy what I really wanted—just in case my folks hadn't paid attention to all the hints I'd dropped.

Only thing was, with both my mother and father having to work weekend Christmas hours—she's a floor manager at Morton's Department Store, he runs a candy shop—there wasn't much for me to do but hang out in our fifth-floor apartment. See, we live in the city.

That day, things were okay. I played some computer games, poked around the Internet, checked my E-mail (nothing), and watched a football game from sunny southern California.

After that, I called my best friend, Pete. I mean, I knew he was supposed to visit his dad in Florida, but I thought maybe the storm had grounded him. But, no, his ma said he had taken off right after school. Anyway, it all meant I sort of did nothing, which is okay on the first day of Christmas break.

But that was only the first day.

C
old as it was,
my mother, father, and I went to church on Sunday morning. To be honest, if it was further than around the corner I bet we wouldn't have gone. I mean, we don't go that often. But at breakfast, my mother, who is sort of sappy about Christmas, said it might do us some good. You know, remind us what the holiday was supposed to be about and all.

Our Lady of Mercy is a nice church, not too big, with these cool stained-glass windows which I like to look at. That morning I didn't really listen to what the minister was saying, except it was all about Mary and the baby Jesus, and (I think) what Mary said to this angel when he told her she was going to have the baby. The minister pointed to one of the windows, where there was the angel (gold wings and white robes) and Mary (blue dress) on her knees before him. It was pretty cool to look at, which I did for most of the service.

Then we went home, and my parents took off for work. I was alone again.

Soon as they left I got on the phone and called Blake, my other best friend. But Blake had to work in his mother's flower shop so he wouldn't be free till after Christmas. I felt like saying, “Who's going to buy flowers in this snow?” But I didn't. Thing is, this was an all-around bummer.

I even called Cory, who was only sort of a friend. His sister said he was in bed with the flu. Double bummer.

Since the weekend before Christmas is the most important shopping time of the year for a lot of people, my parents had to be gone until evening. That meant putting off decorating our tree until Monday night, the only time they could plan on being around.

So there I was, with nothing to do.

To make things worse, even though the snow stopped, the outside temperature dropped way down. I mean, plunged. Everything froze like an old piece of meat in the back of the freezer compartment.

By late afternoon I was bored out of my mind, staring out the living room window onto the icy street below. The parked cars, mostly buried in drifts, reminded me of the backs of whales. For walking, there were only narrow paths that had been dug out through the blowing snow. Daggers of ice hung from doorways, windows, and garbage pails. Sometimes they fell as the wind whipped the streets. I could see them shatter. The few people out were wrapped in coats, caps, mufflers, gloves, and boots. The way they moved reminded me of lost balloons in a stormy sky. I mean, it was one of those days where you think, Hey, I'm snug and safe. Nothing in the world can touch me!

With the tip of my index finger I wrote on the inside frost of the window glass:

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

No one bothered to look up. Then I realized that if they did look, the letters would have read backwards anyway. I supposed if there was one of those Christmas angels flying by—you know, like I'd seen in the church window—maybe he could have read it. But guess what? I didn't exactly see him.

M
onday morning, just before
my parents went off to work, a call came saying there would be an exterminator coming. Happened once a year. I think the building where we live arranged for it.

“That's odd,” my mother said, when she hung up. “They don't usually come at this time of year.”

The thing was, my parents asked me to hang around to let the guy into the apartment. You know, make sure he didn't steal anything while he was going about his business.

“What time is he coming?” I wanted to know.

My dad shrugged. “It's like the phone company. You have to stay home until they show.”

“After he comes,” my mom said, “maybe you can bring up the Christmas decorations from the basement.” She opened the top drawer of one of the kitchen cabinets and handed me this little key. “The storage bay number is on it.” I put the key in my pocket.

“And I promise to bring home a tree tonight,” my dad said cheerfully. “A good one.”

“We'll decorate,” Mom added. “After supper.”

Kisses, hugs, and then they left.

It may have been freezing outside but I ate my regular breakfast of cold cereal—a mix of Shredded Wheat and Frosted Flakes—plus a cup of hot chocolate. Sitting alone in the kitchen, I began to think about the vacation ahead. It looked pretty empty and big-time annoying.

I checked my E-mail (nothing), then played some computer games in my room. But after I killed a zillion Zergs it felt like my brain was beginning to itch.

I tried the TV. But, you know, how many kiddie cartoons can you watch? The talk shows were boring too. The cooking shows were all turkey. No decent movies, either. Nothing but screaming Christmas ads. “Buy this! Buy that!” shouted by people with grins so wide you'd think they were selling false teeth.

Mixed in were lots of warnings about the cold snap. “Don't go out unless you have to!”

“If you do go out, bundle up tight!”

“Be careful!”

Then there were, like, all these calls for food, shelter, and clothing for the homeless, the needy, the lonely. “At this time of year . . . the bitter cold . . .”

I got to feeling so antsy, I sneaked a look under my parents' bed to check out my Christmas presents. There was a whole bunch of stuff. Not bad. But their main gift was a disappointment. See, they had gotten me this radio-controlled stunt car, a Rebound 4 × 4 Jet. Thing is, what I'd been hinting at was the Rebound 4 × 4 Jet
Turbo
. It was much better than what they got. It has longer-lasting batteries and goes faster, too.

That made me feel glad that I'd been a bit—hate to say it—cheap with their presents. But with the money I'd saved I could buy the car I wanted, the Turbo, which was the one Pete had. We'd be able to race when he got home from Florida.

It wasn't long before I was sorry I'd looked at my gifts. I mean, what's the point in knowing what your presents are when you can't touch them, use them, or even talk about them? The surprise is, you know, totally gone. I felt like I was waiting for something that had already happened.

By eleven o'clock I was bored stupid. I kept thinking this wasn't the way Christmas was supposed to be. I felt like sticking my head out the window and shouting, “Help! It's the end of the world!”

Then came the knock on our door.

“Who's there?” I asked. If you live in a city apartment you're always supposed to ask that before you open the door. Even grown-ups do it. You'd be amazed at the creeps that come into nice buildings like ours.

“Exterminator!” came the answer.

I flipped the dead bolt, plus the second lock, then pulled open the heavy door.

A huge guy was standing before me. I mean, he was really big. Underneath a black peaked cap that had a skull-with-wings logo, he had this straight, white-blond hair that reached to his shoulders. His face was long, pale, with a thin nose and glittering eyes. He had this wild mustache—whitish-blond—that stuck out on both sides of his face. The mustache reminded me of the long-horned cows I'd seen on a school video about the old West.

He was wearing a black leather jacket, fleecelined. Black combat boots. Army issue, I figured. Each hand gripped the handle of a metal box. The boxes had the same picture of a skull-with-wings as his hat.

There was a smell about him, too. I couldn't place it.

“Folks home?” he asked in a voice that was low, sort of rumbly.

“They're working,” I answered, staring up at him. “But they told me you were coming so I can let you in.”

“Good,” he said.

I stepped aside.

“Where's your kitchen?” he demanded.

“Over here,” I said, and led the way.

When we got there the exterminator peered around with those sharp eyes of his. “What you got, dude? Roaches? Mice? Rats?”

“I think we're pretty clean,” I said, wondering if he'd be disappointed.

“Nothing to do with cleanliness, kid,” he snapped. “If the Queen of England lived around here, trust me, she'd have roaches.” He pulled open his metal boxes, laying out canisters marked:

POISON! HARMFUL IF SWALLOWED! CAUTION! CAUSTIC!

“This is the city,” he went on, all riled up. “Vermin live here. Fact is, there are more vermin than people. Did you know that, kid?”

“Nope.”

“Right. If it weren't for guys like me, the vermin would take over. Have any idea what would happen then?”

I shook my head.

“They would exterminate
people
.”

“They would?”

“End of life as you know it. Hey, how come you're not in school?” he suddenly asked, fixing me with a hard stare.

“It's Christmas vacation.”

“Wish I had a vacation. For me, it's war all the time. Otherwise the vermin would take over.”

While he talked, he'd been busy sprinkling white powder along the base of the kitchen cabinets and inside closets and drawers. His bony, pale fingers opened everything. It was as if he had the right to go into all our hidden places.