The Christmas Rat (5 page)

During our dinner of macaroni and cheese I wanted to tell my parents about the rat. But I didn't.

Finally, my mother said, “What were you doing at the library?” I realized she must have found my note.

I shrugged. “Looking for a book.”

“You find it?”

“It was out.”

She didn't ask any more.

Later on, I asked myself why I hadn't told them about the rat. I decided I needed to figure out what I thought of it all first.

We decorated the Christmas tree that night. It wasn't as big as some years, but my father still needed help setting it on the wooden stand. It slanted only a little bit. I helped him drape the lights, too. A few bulbs were out, but the whole thing looked cool.

With Christmas carols playing, my mother made popcorn. She had gotten some cranberries, too, and we strung them into long Christmas necklaces and draped them around the tree.

Finally there were decorations, old ones from my grandparents' trees. Glass ornaments and such. The only one bad moment came when my mother discovered that her treetop angel had been chewed. I mean, she was totally upset. See, she had kept that angel since she was a little girl. “Oh, Eric,” she cried, teary, “I wanted to give it to your children. It was kind of my guardian angel.”

“How come you kept it packed away?” I asked.

My question seemed to surprise her. “It's a Christmas angel,” she replied as if that answered it.

“We'll find another,” my father told her.

She said, “It won't be the same.”

“Then we'll get this one fixed,” he offered. “I suppose even angels need attention from time to time.” Once again, I wanted to tell them about the rat but I didn't.

Standing on tiptoes, my mother put her partly chewed angel on the treetop. She gave a sad smile. “Maybe we should get a better one. Start a new tradition.”

As we always did after we decorated, we put out a few presents, the ones that came from relatives. There were two from Aunt Thelma who lived in Texas, one from Uncle Willie in Massachusetts. They always sent the same things. T-shirts from Aunt Thelma that bragged
DON'T MESS WITH TEXAS
. From Uncle Willie, a box of chocolates shaped like Christmas wreaths. Willie was my father's brother, and of course he knew my dad had a candy store. It was Uncle Willie's idea of a joke, but the present had always annoyed my dad. My mother would say every year, “Now Lloyd, it's Christmastime. Be loving.” And my dad would shrug. Always happened just that way, for as long as I could remember.

Then, to make it all complete, we hung my stocking. It was made of red felt and had faint green sparkles on it spelling out “Merry Christmas.” I had hung that stocking since I was five years old. I knew I was a little big for that sort of thing, but I liked it. So did my folks.

My mother made herb tea for us and served chocolate-chip cookies. Then we watched the news and got a lot of stupid talk about the cold snap. They kept asking the same question: “How low will the temperature go?”

“It's keeping everyone inside,” my father said, thinking, I guessed, about his store. “Not good for sales. They'll be down this season.”

“People have to buy candy,” my mother replied encouragingly. “It's Christmas, after all,” she added. “Can't have Christmas without sweetness.”

“It's bitter outside,” my father said, making a face. “Not a creature is stirring.”

That got me feeling very tired. I announced I was going to bed.

First my mother came in to kiss me good-night, then my father.

“Dad,” I called out just as he was about to leave the room, “what do you think about rats?”

He turned back. “I suppose I don't like them much. But I've been told they make great pets. What makes you ask?”

“Just thinking.”

He sat on the end of my bed. “Here it's almost Christmas and you're thinking about rats. Some TV movie you saw?”

“A story I read.”

He smiled. “Hey, reading can get the mind going. Good-night, son.”

“ 'Night, Dad.”

I had wanted to read. Anything but think about rats. I couldn't. According to Anje I was supposed to go into the basement that night and search around.

I turned off my bedside lamp. The hall light was still on and my door was partially open so it wasn't completely dark.

As I lay there I thought again about who was more creepy: the rat or Anje the exterminator? The question made me toss and turn. It was as if I knew the answer, but didn't want to admit it.

“The exterminator,” I finally said out loud. The moment I spoke the words, I had a flood of bad feelings about Anje: How uncomfortable he made me. All that talk of killing. His hard eyes. Long, white-blond hair. The skull-with-wings on his hat. His poison boxes. His blunt, bossy way of talking. Acting like he was the judge of the whole world. Sure, the rat was creepy. He, I decided, was worse.

Just allowing myself these thoughts made me feel better. Like a window had been opened, the poison gone.

I shifted under my covers, closed my eyes and waited for sleep. It didn't come. The relief I'd felt lasted only moments. I got nervous all over again. See, I started thinking—what would Anje say when he knew I was bothered more by him than the rat? I just knew he would know. Would he think of me as a traitor to humans? Would he turn on me? Would the rat be killed anyway?

I rolled over in bed, searching for a more comfortable position. The truth was, I didn't want the rat to be killed. I mean, the rat wasn't bothering me. Just because Anje said he should be killed didn't mean . . . anything.

There it was,
why kill anything?
And, you know, it was Christmastime.

No way,
I told myself. I wouldn't do it.

Except, the next question was, should I call Anje and tell him what I'd decided?

No—he'd know. I knew he would. And it was his reaction I dreaded.

I didn't want to think about any of that. Instead, I turned on my lamp and read until I grew drowsy. Christmas, I reminded myself, was only three days away. I wished it would hurry. I started to hum
Silent Night
. Somewhere in the middle of it I fell asleep.

T
uesday morning, I woke
up late. My parents had already gone to work. On the kitchen table I found a note:

Eric,

Didn't want to wake you. You looked so peaceful! Try to
do
something today. Call a friend. See a movie! The 14th Street Arcade? Here's ten bucks to help things along. If you go somewhere, give one of us a call so we'll know where you are.

Love, Dad

P.S. Still very cold! Bundle up well!

The bottom part was in my mother's handwriting.

As I ate breakfast I read the note over. Pushing my food aside—I didn't eat much—I thought about what movie I wanted to see. There was a place on 4th Avenue that showed eight different ones. I probably could find something I wanted to see.

Had I ever gone to a movie alone? I didn't think so. I wondered if Cory was over the flu. Though I doubted it, I decided it was worth a call.

I showered, got dressed, and was about to make my call when the doorbell rang.

From inside I shouted, “Who is it?”

“Eden trap.”

“What?”

“Eden trap. The rat. It's me, Anje. You forget?”

“Oh.” My heart sank. I had put the rat business out of my mind. Now it was back.
He
was back. Along with all my thoughts from the night before, only worse. I felt I had to open the door.

There he was, looking as big as ever.

“Hey, kid, how you doing?”

He didn't exactly push past me. But then again I didn't invite him. He just came in and went right to the living room.

I followed.

When I caught up to him he was standing there, staring at the tree.

“Nice tree,” he said. He shifted his gaze slightly. “And you've put a stocking up. Got a little brother?”

I grinned sheepishly. “It's mine.”

“Hey, it's Christmas.”

“I guess.”

Suddenly, he stopped. “What's that on top?”

“An angel.”

“It looks . . . chewed.”

“It was the rat. Remember, when I found him he was eating it. I showed you.”

“Guess you did,” Anje said. Then he turned to face me. “How'd it go last night?” he asked.

“Last night?”

“What you do, kid, sleep in? Or did you forget you were supposed to get out into the field last night, scouting around. Didn't you go?”

“Ah . . . yeah,” I said, wondering why I lied.

His eyes hardened. “You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what did you see?”

“The . . . uh . . . rat.”

“Find where he's hiding out?”

“Mr.—”

“Anje. Just Anje.”

“Anje . . . I was thinking.”

“Yeah, what?”

“I . . . ah . . . don't think I want to do this.”

A moment of silence. “Don't want to
what?
”

“Kill the rat.”

He didn't say anything. He just stared at me.

I said, “Is that . . . okay?”

“Wait a minute,” he replied. “You saying you don't
want
that rat dead?” There was a snarl in his voice.

“No, I'm just saying . . . well . . .” I stared at my feet. “
I
don't want to do it.”

“You did yesterday, dude.”

“Well, I . . . just . . . don't want to . . . now.”

“People,” he murmured. Then he took a deep breath and said, “Okay. But just so you understand, I intend to do the job. It's who I am. Kind of a calling, if you know what I mean. I could always use some help, but hey, nobody's perfect. Only don't interfere. You hear me?”

I didn't know what to say.

“Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Without another word, or even looking back at me, he went right to our hall, walked out, and slammed the door behind him.

Feeling sort of weak, as if I had done something wrong, I sat down. Then I reminded myself that it was Anje who was strange. I sighed, wishing the whole thing would just go away.

I called Cory. He no longer had a fever—that's what his sister said—but he was still in bed. We could probably get together after Christmas. “Cory would really like that,” she said. “Merry Christmas, Eric.”

By this time I was hating Merry Christmas.

In the living room I turned on the TV just in time to get an extra weather report. It was getting colder. A break was not expected until Christmas Day. I felt trapped. Like a rat.

I lay on the couch and watched some cartoons. When they became too boring, I picked up a book. Reading wasn't any better. I was too restless to concentrate.

I went into my parents' room and pulled out my main Christmas present from under their bed, the radio-controlled car. I unpacked it carefully, making sure I didn't break the cardboard box.

The Rebound 4 × 4 Jet Car was about ten inches long and had these four very large wheels, a red streamlined car body on the top, an equally streamlined blue truck—complete with cargo bay—on the bottom. There was also a control box with double toggle controls and a wire antenna. Having used Pete's model—the Turbo—lots of times, I knew how to work this one.

I slipped some batteries in—a red light came on to show they were good—set it on the ground, clicked the
ON
switch, and shifted the two toggles. Right off, the car zipped around the room, turning, flipping, spinning, shifting from one direction to another. Cool. It cheered me up.

Then I got bothered. After all, it was supposed to be my parents' Christmas gift to me. I repacked it carefully and put it back under the bed just the way it had been.

At eleven o'clock, I decided I would take the money Dad had given me and go to the arcade. If I played the games I knew well—like Rock Team Road Racer—I could string out the ten bucks for at least a couple of hours. I mean, it was something to do. I called my father's store and left him a message about where I was going.

Dressed for the cold, I got on the elevator and pushed the
LOBBY
button. The thing made its regular going-down noises. But suddenly I had to see what was going on down in the basement. Impulsively, I pushed the
BASEMENT
button.

Since I had pushed the
LOBBY
button first, it stopped there. A guy was about to get on, but when I said, “I'm going down,” he quickly said, “I'll wait,” and backed out. It was as if the basement was a place to avoid. Or maybe it was me.

Though the lights were on, the place seemed empty. But as I walked around, I saw small white paper cups set against the walls. In each cup there were brown pellets. I picked up one of the cups to take a closer look. Sniffed it, too. It had a bitter smell. I was pretty sure it was poison, which meant Anje had been there. I put the cup down and hurried back to the elevator.

I kept thinking about Anje. His bright eyes, pale face, long blond hair. He reminded me of someone: I couldn't figure out who. But why did the guy care so much about killing one rat? The animal was probably only coming in from the cold. As soon as the freeze was over, I was sure the rat would go away.

I sort of guessed that none of that mattered to Anje. The guy wanted the rat dead. Hadn't he said he liked killing? The arcade, I reminded myself. Get the rat stuff out of your mind!

I went outside. Man, it was frigid.

I had gone about two blocks in the direction of the arcade when I came to a sudden stop. I was so upset I was almost crying. And I knew why. It was the whole exterminator-rat thing. The thought of Anje coming into our apartment building—probably using his own keys—to kill that rat really got to me.