A Writer's Tale

He ambled up the street with his hands stuffed in his bluejean pockets. Gary Cooper. He wished there was a straw around to suck on. Only asphalt and grass and elm and red brick. Grass wouldn’t do. He would say “Yup” instead. The ambling and the “Yup” would do it. He ambled up to the front door of Allen’s house.

Rich touched the doorbell. It had a hair-trigger. Only chimes and a high-pitched howl answered the touch, no footsteps or voice. He touched the button again. Again the chimes and howl, but this time came a voice. From the backyard. So Rich cut across the front lawn and down the side of the house to the back.

“Hi Rich!” yelled Allen. “Come here.”

“Yeah, come here,” Jimmy echoed.

Both boys were crouched above a special patch of grass. Rich joined them. “Howdy!

What’s goin’ on?”

“A mouse,” answered Allen.

Rich knelt beside the other two boys. “Yeah,” he said with amazement. It was a live hump of greyness half-hidden in the grass.

“It’s shaking.”

“Cold.”

“Winter’ll be here pretty soon.”

“And nighttime,” Rich added. He hesitated to say anything.

He knew almost nothing about mice. Allen probably knew a lot about mice. Allen knew a lot about most things. His father used to be a professor of history.

“I think we oughta warm it up,” stated Allen.

“How?”

“Bring it along over to the patio.”

Jimmy lifted the quivering mouse out of the grass.

Rich stroked its back with his forefinger. “It sure is cold,” he said. “That shivering under the fur is awful.”

“You telling me?” Jimmy stared, vaguely repulsed, at the furry animal that stood passive and shivering in his hand.

“Come on,” cried Allen. “Ya gonna bring it over?”

Jimmy followed orders. Within the charcoal broiler, the mouse continued to crouch, motionless except for the quiver.

Rich wished that it would move. He had never seen a mouse from so close and wanted to see it run.

“Go in the garage and get the gas,” Allen commanded Jimmy.

“You. I don’t know where it is.”

“It’s on the lowest shelf and it’s in a red can.”

“You get it.”

“If you get the gas, I’ll light the match.”

Jimmy went for the gas.

Rich stared at the mouse. “You know,” he drawled, “I don’t think we oughta do it.”

“It’s cold, ain’t it?” Allen laughed. The parted lips were very red and Rich had once almost asked if it was lipstick. But he hadn’t.

“I don’t know,” Rich muttered, forgetting his Gary Cooper drawl.

“Are ya yellow?”

“Nah.”

Jimmy brought the red gasoline can. He unscrewed the larger of the two lids and reversed it so that the flexible spout pointed upward. “You wanna pour?”

“Nah, you can.”

Jimmy handed it to Allen and stepped back. Allen poured.

The gas looked like strong cider. Its fumes killed the autumn odour. And the mouse began to run, feet ticking against the metal floor.

Allen stood above the arena with a cardboard match in his hand, its red tip poised against the striking surface of the pack. “I can’t do it!” he cried. “I can’t!” Then his red lips thinned. He struck the match and dropped it into the broiler. The gas burst aflame with a quick, hollow wind sound. The ticking speeded as the mouse scampered in circles squeaking. It didn’t squeak loudly. The squeak was as soft and steady as the ticking of its feet against the flaming metal. The fire sound almost smothered both. Then both stopped.

The mouse lay on its side.

Rich expected Allen to remark about the effectiveness of the warming process, for the grey animal no longer shivered. But Allen said nothing. The trio stood in a circle around the charcoal burner and stared at the corpse.

Then Jimmy said, “It doesn’t even look burnt.”

“Look how its fur is all stuck together,” Allen said. “Like it’s been in a river.”

“Yeah, it just looks wet,” Rich said.

“But it is dead.”

“Must’ve been the smell of gas. Maybe it got exfixiated.”

“Funny it isn’t burnt.”

“Yeah.”

Allen lifted it with two sticks and carried it to the edge of his lot and dropped it in the alley. “I gotta go in now.”

“Me too,” Jimmy said.

Rich walked home as fast as he could.

Leaves whispered through the open window. He sat up in bed and leaned against the sill to look out. The leaves did not seem to move. Then a tiny patch of blackness floated downward. He saw it against the lighter darkness of the street and it disappeared when the street no longer lay behind it.