Bebe (2 page)

Alone, Bebe stood shivering in the doorway, nervously wondering what she should do next. The night was cold, so Bebe backed into the only-slightly warmer living room. After several long, shivering minutes of finger-tapping uncertainty, she eventually decided Sir and Ma’am would probably want her to close the door, too. Maybe even to lock it.

It took both hands to work the complicated latch, and when she was done, she stood back from the door, wondering how long they might be gone and whether she might not ought to get back on her cushion like she was supposed to.

Shivering, Bebe fetched her small blanket. Though she knew she wasn’t allowed, she climbed up onto the couch for a closer look at the temperature console. She touched the black keypad with the tip of her finger, but unlike when Sir or Ma’am did it, the thermostat did not reactivate and the flame in the fireplace did not instantly rekindle. Instead, a red light blinked at her twice, beeping in a negative tone before the keypad went black again.

Disappointed, Bebe pulled her blanket tighter and climbed back down off the couch.

What time was it?

Hugging herself for warmth, she wandered into the kitchen to stare blankly up at the neon glow of the wall clock, situated just above the inset cooker. The small thin strips of light were arranged in incomprehensible dashes and squiggled lines. Not one of the lines matched what she was accustomed to seeing in the mornings when it was time to make Sir’s coffee. They didn’t match the afternoon either, when Ma’am said it was time for shopping, knitting or napping. One of the seven lighted lines looked similar to when the when the sun disappeared behind the house, which usually meant Sir was on his way home from work and the table needed to be set for supper. Except that it was the middle of the night and Sir had only just left. So, obviously that wasn’t right.

Heaving a sigh, Bebe wandered back out to the dining room, squeezing in behind the table and chairs to stand at the only window in the house low enough for her to see out of without first standing on a stool. In the daylight, she could rest her chin upon the sill and see birds and trees and even glimpse people and objects through the upper windows of the houses across the street. Unfortunately, right now all she could see were shadows in the blackness, transporter lights streaking high, high up in the sky, and the faint winking of the stars.

Turning her face sideways, she pressed her cheek to the cool glass to catch sight of the upper halo of light from the streetlamp further down the cul-de-sac. Hugging her blanket, Bebe rose onto tiptoes but there was nothing moving around in the darkness underneath. Not even that big male who lived three doors down and who sometimes got put outside at night. She always felt so sorry for him; she never got put outside.

Bebe studied the night, hoping that Sir and Ma’am might come straight home again, that Ma’am would be better, that life would return to normal and she could go back to sleep. One minute bled into two, and then ten. Her feet began to ache from standing on tiptoes for so long, so Bebe quietly lowered herself to stand flat on the floor again. The house felt very strange, very quiet. Very cold. It wasn’t natural. It made her nervous, especially since she wasn’t accustomed to being left alone. In fact, nothing like this had ever happened to her before, at least not that she could remember. Ma’am was very fond of Bebe, after all, and always took her along whenever she left the house. Even before Sir and Ma’am when she had lived in the Room, she’d always had her mother and siblings to keep her company. At least until the Man came and took her away, giving her to First Ma’am, that kindly old, silver-haired woman who was deaf and almost blind and who tended to drop things, which Bebe would pick up and press back into her withered, shaking, searching hands again.

First Ma’am had never left her alone either. She had been too frail to leave the house. Not in all the time that Bebe had been with her had she ever once ventured farther than the front door, and always Bebe right by her side, helping her find her way. But then First Ma’am had died, and the Man moved into the house long enough to pack up First Ma’am’s things and send Bebe away.

Shuddering, Bebe turned her face physically from the window, as if that alone could help her avoid the memories of the Awful Place she had ended up in. She stared through the chilled glass into the blackness, trying not to breathe because along with those memories invariably came the remembered smell: cage after cage of pets like her, huddled together two or three to a cell. Burdensome and unwanted. At least until the day Sir and Ma’am walked in. They had like Bebe so much, they not only brought her home with them, but they gave her a name. Her very own name; she’d never had one of those before, either.

How long ago had that been? Three winters now? Maybe four. Bebe wasn’t sure.

Regardless, even in the Awful Place, pets were never left alone. There was always someone there, dark-haired giants who walked up and down between the cells, bringing food and water, taking each inhabitant outside to run the grounds while the cages were cleaned, and spraying them down with the hose before locking them up again. If forced to admit it, during daylight hours the Awful Place hadn’t really been
that
bad. But at night...oh now, nights there were often a wholly different matter.

Night was when the guards took command, walking the halls, keeping the pets quiet and the escape-prone males securely locked out of the females’ pens. Sometimes, in the very wee small hours, and if a guard was so inclined, a female—or even a male—could and often was taken from the relative safety of their cage and led off into the dark. Bebe could still hear the cries, the pleading, the wet, rhythmic sucking/slapping noises. Sometimes she still had nightmares where she again heard that unforgettable sound of the electronic key unlocking her cage door.

She quickly turned her face back the other way. She didn’t want to think about that, either.

Yes, the Awful Place had been truly horrible, but she liked it here. She liked Sir and Ma’am, despite occasionally having to bend over the ottoman while lubricant was rubbed between her legs. She liked them even if they got up and left her in the middle of the night. Even if they smacked her in the head with their luggage as they left. They could smack her in the head all day long, and it would still be better than what she’d endured the night the guards had dragged her from her cell.

Abandoning the window, hoping at any moment to see the splash of lights washing across the dining room wall as the transporter drifted back up the driveway, Bebe padded softly back out to the living room again. She paused once, glancing down the hall at the open bedroom door. The light on the nightstand was still on. If she were allowed to go into their bedroom, she might have been tempted to wander down the hall and turn it off. Instead, surrounded by all this nerve-wracking silence and much too unsettled to sleep, she returned to stand before the front door.

Blinking up at it with solemn blue eyes, she gathered her blanket tight around her and lowered herself to sit cross-legged on the floor. With no other options, Bebe did the only thing she could: she waited.

And waited.

And waited until her legs and her back began to ache from the strain of just sitting there. Bebe left the door then, but only long enough to drag her cushion from the now cold and dark fireplace to her self-appointed sentry spot. Then she sat down on it, folding herself in as much of her blanket as she could to continue waiting.

Until the darkness outside began to fade before the rising of the sun and the sky lit in myriad hues of pink and orange. A soft whir and click from the corner signaled the moment when the sweeper activated itself and began to make its rounds through the house. She glanced down at the round silver disc when it bumped into the side of her misplaced cushion. A series of lights flashed across the flat surface before it accepted her disruption of its standard work-path and changed trajectories.

Rising stiffly, Bebe hobbled into the kitchen to check the clock and start the coffee. She wasn’t sure if Sir intended to come home for a cup or two before work. For all she knew, he might already be at work. Maybe he’d just left really, really early. But, he’d never taken Ma’am with him before. And if he did come home for coffee, would it be a spanking offense to not have it ready for him? Bebe tapped her fingers twice before deciding she’d rather not find out for sure.

As the coffee brewed, she fetched her stool from its resting place behind the chiller and used it to bring Sir’s favorite mug down from the cupboard. She poured fresh cream into a small floral pitcher and set it on the counter next to his cup, then she returned to her pillow. Pulling her blanket back around her, she stifled a weary yawn and made herself as comfortable as her stiff legs would allow. Elbows on her knees and head cupped in her palms, she resumed her watch.

Time passed. The sun climbed. Her stomach growled and she had to go to the bathroom. She returned to her cushion just as soon as she was done. She wanted to be there to greet them when they returned and to help, just in case she was needed.

Outside, a transport door slammed, startling Bebe’s head up off her hands. Were they home?

She jumped up—Oh, her body was so stiff and sore!—and hobbled to the dining room window, arching onto her tiptoes in time to see a uniformed man strolling up the cobbled-walk to their porch. He stepped up far enough to knock twice at the door, then bent to place a plain-wrapped package on the upper step. He left again, whistling cheerfully as he strolled back the way he’d come. Bebe raised one hand to wave, but he didn’t notice her. She watched as he climbed back into his vehicle, connecting the delivery transport with the commuter rail, and then shot swiftly out of sight.

Alone again, she lowered herself back off her toes and reluctantly left the window. After pausing a moment in the dining room, rubbing at her empty stomach, she went into the kitchen and put the room-temperature cream back into the chiller. If...
when
Sir came home, she’d hurry and pull it out again. Then he’d think it had always been ready for him, and she wouldn’t be in trouble.

By now, the coffee-maker had shut itself off and was rapidly cooling, so she poked it on again. She really was quite hungry. Even knowing she shouldn’t, she took her stepstool from the wall and climbed up onto the counter. After a cautious rummage through the pantry cupboards, she pulled down the cookie tin and removed the top. Nestled on a thin bed of crumbs, were three cookies. Only three. Her stomach rumbled, but if she ate one Ma’am was sure to notice.

Bebe stared into the tin, her mouth watering and her stomach aching it felt so hollow. Careful not to break them, she removed each of the remaining cookies and lay them on the counter beside her. Shaking the crumbs out into her hand, she ate those instead. Some accidentally spilled through her fingers and, sensing the minute disturbance sprinkling across the kitchen floor, from the other end of the house the sweeper adjusted its course. Quickly putting the cookie tin away, Bebe leapt off the counter barely in time to grab the biggest crumbs before the sweeper got them all.

Her stomach still felt empty, but Bebe put her stool back in its place and returned to her cushion. She stood for a few uncertain minutes before hesitantly unlocking the door to peek out at the package still sitting on the porch. She glanced cautiously up and down the street to see if anyone might be watching, then quickly dashed outside to bring it in. She slammed and locked the door behind her, pressing back against it with the package hugged tight against her chest and her own heart pounding in her ears.

How many times had she broken the rules today?

She looked down at the wrapped box in her arms. It felt relatively light as she turned it between her hands, studying all angles before giving the box a gentle shake. Nothing inside shifted or rattled. Maybe it was empty. Maybe she should put it back on the porch. They’d know for sure she’d gone out after it unless she did, except that outside it might get stolen. That male who got put out sometimes liked to take things that didn’t belong to him. Especially if he thought it might be edible.

Half certain that no matter what she did now she would never be able to extricate herself from the trouble she was in, Bebe left it on the dining table. One hand pressed to her hollow belly, she went back to her cushion, wrapped up in her blanket and tried to get comfortable.

The house grew colder and colder. She had to go to the bathroom again, and her empty stomach was cramping so badly that she was very close to tears when the thought finally occurred to her that Sir and Ma’am might never come home. On shuffling bare feet, she padded into the kitchen to steal a few sips of the cream. Just to quiet her stomach. There was nothing else available that did not first require using the stove or opening packages (which Ma’am would definitely notice). She wasn’t supposed to be in the kitchen any longer than what was necessary to make Sir’s coffee. The kitchen was Ma’am’s domain, and she never liked it when Bebe tried to do things in here.

The cold floor prickled up into her bare feet as she paced guiltily in front of the pantry cabinets, rubbing and rubbing at her stomach. She scoured the floor in hopes of find a crumb the sweeper might have missed, but there wasn’t one.

Her little blanket wasn’t enough to stave off the creeping fall chill anymore, so she padded down the short hallway to Sir and Ma’am’s forbidden bedroom. Miserable, she crawled up onto the foot of their bed. If they never came home, they would never know anyway. And from here she could sit in comfort and warmth under thicker blankets while she watched the front door. She swaddled herself in a corner of the mussed bedding where everything smelled so strongly of them. It made her feel a little less alone. If she closed her weary eyes, she could even pretend they were already home—maybe just sleeping late—and that she was back on her cushion in front of the fireplace, and that everything was normal.

Bebe’s chin thumped down onto her chest and the resulting loss of balance jerked her awake barely in time to keep from falling off the end of the bed onto her nose. Bebe sat bolt upright, sucking in a hard breath and blinking rapidly. Had she fallen asleep?