The Other Mrs.(86)

Mouse did. They made their way down the steps. The house was mostly dark, but there was a hint of the night sky coming in through the windows.

Fake Mom brought Mouse into the living room. She brought her to the center of the room, turned her in a specific direction. There, in the corner of the room, was the empty dog crate, door open as it never was.

I used to have a dog once, Fake Mom said. A springer spaniel. I named him Max, mostly because I couldn’t think of a better name. He was a good dog. A dumb dog, but a good dog. We took walks together. Sometimes, when we’d watch TV, he’d sit by my side. But then Max went and made an accident in the corner of my house when I wasn’t home, and that made Max bad, she said.

She went on. See, we can’t have animals urinating and defecating inside our homes, where they’re not supposed to go. It’s dirty, Mouse. Do you understand that? The best way to teach a dog is by crate training. Because the dog doesn’t want to have to sit with its own piss and shit for days. And so it learns to hold it. Same as you can, Fake Mom said as she grabbed Mouse by the arm and yanked her the rest of the way across the living room for that open dog crate.

Mouse fought back, but Mouse was a child, only six years old. She weighed less than half of what Fake Mom weighed and she had nearly no strength at all.

Mouse had had no dinner. Only three Salerno Butter Cookies. She’s just been woken from sleep. It was the middle of the night and she was tired. She wiggled and writhed, but that was the best she could do, and so she was easily manhandled by Fake Mom. She was forced into the dog crate, which was not even as tall as she was when she sat down. She couldn’t even sit all the way up inside the cage, and so her head rubbed against the hard metal bars of the cage, her neck kinked. She couldn’t lie down, couldn’t stretch out her legs. She had to keep them pulled into her, so that they went numb.

Mouse was crying. She was begging to be let out. Promising to be good, to never pee on the toilet seat again.

But Fake Mom wasn’t listening.

Because Fake Mom was making her way back upstairs.

Mouse didn’t know why. She thought maybe Fake Mom was going back up to get her poor Mr. Bear.

But when Fake Mom returned she didn’t have the bear.

She had Bert.

It made Mouse shriek, seeing her sweet guinea pig in Fake Mom’s hands. Bert never did like to be held by anyone other than Mouse. She was kicking her tiny feet in Fake Mom’s grasp, squealing her high-pitched squeal, louder than Mouse had ever heard her before. It wasn’t the same squeal she made for carrots. It was a different kind of squeal. A terrified kind of squeal.

Mouse’s heart was beating a million miles a minute.

She beat on the bars of that dog crate but couldn’t get out.

She tried forcing the door open but it wouldn’t budge because there was some sort of padlock on that door.

Did you know, Mouse, that a dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one? she asked, holding one of her knives up in the air to examine the blade in the moonlight.

How many times, she asked, not waiting for an answer to the question she’d already asked, do I have to tell you that I don’t want one rodent in this house, let alone two?

Mouse closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her ears so that she couldn’t see or hear what came next.

  It wasn’t a week before Mouse’s father had another work trip.

He stood in the doorway saying his goodbyes as Fake Mom stood beside Mouse.

I’ll only be gone for a few days. I’ll be back before you can miss me, her father said as he stared into Mouse’s sad eyes, promising her that when he got home they’d pick out a new guinea pig for her, one to replace Bert. Her father was of the opinion that Bert had merely run away, that she was getting her kicks somewhere in the voids of the house where they couldn’t find her.

Mouse didn’t want a new guinea pig. Not then, not ever. And only Mouse and Fake Mom knew the reason why.

Beside her, Fake Mom squeezed Mouse’s shoulder. She stroked her mousy brown hair and said, We’re going to get along just fine. Aren’t we, Mouse? Now say goodbye to your father so that he can go on his trip.

Mouse tearfully said goodbye.

She and Fake Mom stood beside each other, watching as her father’s car pulled from the drive and disappeared around the bend.

And then Fake Mom kicked the front door closed and turned on Mouse.



SADIE


The public safety building is a small brick building in the center of town. I’m grateful to find the door unlocked, a warm, yellow light glowing from the inside.

A woman sits behind the desk, pecking away on a keyboard as I let myself in. She startles, clutching her bosom when the door bursts open and I appear. On a day such as this, she hadn’t expected anyone to be outside.

I trip over the door’s threshold on the way in. I didn’t see the one-inch rise. I fall to my hands and knees just inside the doorway, not having it in me to catch myself in time. The floor isn’t as yielding as the snow; this fall hurts far more than the others.

“Oh dear,” the woman says, rising quickly to her feet to come help me to mine. She nearly runs around the edge of the desk and reaches for me on the floor. Her mouth hangs open, her eyes wide with surprise. She can’t believe what she’s seeing. The room around me is boxy and small. Yellow walls, carpeted floors, a double pedestal desk. The air is miraculously warm. A space heater stands in the corner, blowing heated air throughout the room.