The Orphan and the Mouse (7 page)

It was a few minutes later in the older girls' dormitory when Miss Grahame turned to Mrs. George and said: “You know, I have so longed for a child of my own, a son. But fate has not seen fit to favor me.” Then (the cue seemed to have been written into a script somewhere), she sighed.

The two women had been surveying beds and shoes—lined
up, well ordered, and pleasing to the eye. Mrs. George nodded sympathetically. “What a shame,” she said with feeling, even though the fact was already known to her, indeed the reason for Miss Grahame's visit.

“And I, uh . . . understand,” Miss Grahame went on, “that you're often the first to hear of babies, healthy babies, who are available for adoption?”

Mrs. George nodded. “Yes. It happens that unfortunate young women get themselves into trouble, or, in some cases, that families can't afford another mouth to feed.”

“Where I live in California, the agencies will only give babies to married couples,” Miss Grahame said. “An older kid I might be able to get, some kind of a desperate situation. But I say an older kid's already damaged goods, am I right? I want a new baby so I can start fresh, make it my own.”

Mrs. George knew most people felt the same way; they just didn't express themselves so bluntly. Diplomatically, she replied, “I'm aware of the legal limitations, and of course, many children's societies have their own restrictions as well.”

“But your place, Cherry Street. It's more lenient? At least, that's what I hear.”

“I'm a widow myself,” Mrs. George said, “and I believe a woman on her own is fully capable of raising a child. Furthermore, even though I've only known you this short while, I'm confident you'd make a wonderful mother.”

Miss Grahame smiled, apparently confident as well. “So you can help me?”

“We have helped other women in your circumstances.”

By now the two women had made their way to the headmistress's office. On entering, Mrs. George closed the door and invited her guest to sit down.

“And you'll help me,” Miss Grahame insisted. It had been years since a wish of hers had been frustrated.

“There's the matter of the woman signing over parental rights, and a judge's approval. There will be expenses, and possibly certain additional fees, since yours is a special case.” Mrs. George sat down behind her desk. “Now, from what you say, you're interested in a newborn boy? A newborn Caucasian boy?”

“Blond,” said Miss Grahame, “so he looks like me.”

In the summer, the children at the Cherry Street Home had their afternoons free for games, or reading, or playing outside. With so many playmates, there was always something to do.

On this evening, most of the children had listened to the RCA radio, newly purchased by Mr. and Mrs. Philips-Bodbetter. There were songs by Frankie Laine and the Andrews Sisters, and the new favorite serial drama,
Dragnet
. The combination of an exotic setting (Los Angeles!) with realistic police stories had proved irresistible.

Mr. Donald never missed an episode.

During the remainder of that bright, slow summer day, Caro had done her best to act normal . . . and had mostly succeeded, though Matron Polly noted her lack of appetite. The fact was, however, that Miss Grahame's remark had been devastating.

Caro was cheerful, reliable, and dutiful, but she was also a child like other children. She wanted to be pretty, and she never would be. She wished she had party clothes, and a dog of her very own, and books and toys and a canopy bed and a room she didn't have to share.

Most of all, she wished she had parents who loved her the
way only parents could, a mother and a father who thought she was special for one single solitary reason, because she was Caro.

She would never have any of those things, and most days she willed herself to believe that that was fine. But now that awful woman, that awful yet beautiful woman, had made a face and yanked her hand away—and just like that, a torrent of pent-up sadness had been let loose.

In the washroom before bed, the girls in the intermediate dormitory completed their dissection of the visit of Miss Joanna Grahame, which, they all agreed, had been a bust—even leaving aside her rudeness to Caro. She hadn't brought presents or shown the least interest in adopting one of them. And when you saw her close up—did you notice?—that hair of hers wasn't so blond at the roots, and she had crow's-feet.

Listening to the other girls' chatter, Caro had agreed when called upon to do so. Her own raw feelings she set aside.

Now, minutes before lights-out, Betty, Ginny, and Barbara were reading comic books in bed. Lying down, Caro decided she couldn't interest herself in either Archie or Superman, so she turned off her reading lamp and closed her eyes. The air in the room was sticky. Like the other girls, she lay on top of her sheets.

“You okay, Caro?” asked Betty, whose bed was closest.

“I'm okay,” Caro answered, eyes still shut. “Thanks.”

When at last Matron Polly opened the dormitory door and said, “Lights out, girls,” Caro was alone in the dark. She was
so exhausted, had so looked forward to this moment, that she drifted off immediately, only to suffer a long-forgotten dream: She was six years old and in her own house with her mother. It was a few days after the men wearing uniforms came to the door to tell them her soldier father—a hero, her mother said—was dead, killed in the desert at Kasserine Pass.

Ever since that day, her mother had been distracted, forgetful. That evening she had left a kettle on the stove till the water burned away and the red-hot metal ignited the wooden handle, setting the kitchen curtains ablaze.

In her dream, Caro saw it all, though she hadn't known the story at the time. It was Mrs. George who told her later. That day in the flames, all she knew was choking smoke and awful heat and then the blessed relief of breathing cool night air as she ran away, away, away—thinking only of herself, leaving her mother alone in the house to die.

While Caro slept, the mice made final preparations. It was after eleven when Randolph gave the order:
“First wave—depart!”
And with that, ten divisions of mice, each numbering between twenty and twenty-five, flowed from the shelter's cracks, gaps, and crannies into the deserted alley beyond.

Lit only by the moon and streetlamps, the spectacle was rousing—an infinity of ears, furry backsides, and tails in skittering, purposeful motion. Watching from his vantage at the base of a broken drain spout, Randolph felt both pride and terror. Some of these mice would lose their lives . . . to stray cats, dogs, and rats, unexpected owls, uncharted holes in the ground, automobiles, stomping human boots, and every other thing that imperils the smallest creatures.

The night progressed, and Randolph released the second, third, and fourth waves at intervals, measured by the angle of the shadows on the shelter's back wall. In all, more than one thousand mice would depart their nests—nests some families had occupied for a score of generations.

If resettlement proved a success—and there was every reason to think it would—the chief director who had greedily and unscrupulously clung to power (and pictures) would go
down in history as the heroic leader who had saved the colony. The irony was not lost on the chief director himself.

While every other mouse rushed to complete preparations, Mary had been confined to her nest with plenty of time to think. What had gone wrong? Had someone deliberately sabotaged her mission? Had someone sabotaged Zelinsky's?

But as the hours passed, the futility of that line of inquiry became apparent and her thoughts shifted. She questioned her ambitions for Zelinsky and her decision to accept her own appointment as thief. She wished she had not secretly enjoyed the deference other mice showed her. She wondered if she had become arrogant.

Finally, her thoughts settled on the most important thing: her pups. She had let them down . . . and how would they get along? The directorate had assigned their care to an old auntie, but it would not be the same as having a mother.

With a start, Mary realized her own girls would now be in the same position as the human pups who lived at Cherry Street. The one who had rescued her from the predator, Caro her name was, she had called them orphans.

What a strange encounter that had been!

The human pup had asked how it was to be a mouse with such polite eagerness that Mary had felt obliged to answer: “Very pleasant most of the time.”

She hadn't expected the human to understand. After eons of highly motivated practice, mice had learned human language, but humans had never got the knack of Mouse. Still,
Caro had shown unexpected aptitude, even replying appropriately when Mary had squeaked, “Thank you and good-bye!”

Mary wondered what had happened to Caro's mama and papa. Was she sad that they were gone? Did she miss them? Or maybe—and this would be worse yet—she didn't care anymore.

Randolph had many faults, but gratuitous cruelty was not one. Assigned to the final wave of migrants, Mary's three pups were given permission to visit their mother and say good-bye.

“What did you do wrong, Mama?” asked Millie.

“Why can't you come with us?” asked Matilda.

The questions stabbed Mary's heart.

“I don't know if I did anything wrong,” she told her daughters honestly. “But bad things happen, and sometimes it's for no reason. When they do, I suppose, goodness must be its own consolation.”

Millie and Matilda looked at each other and blinked. What was Mama talking about?

But Margaret—her anxious pup—understood a little.

“Tell us a story, Mama,” Margaret said. “Tell us a story to make us feel better.”

Mary did not believe there was such a story. But she began anyway: “Once upon a time,” and the gift of a story was given. It was the last episode in the tale of Stuart Little, when the dapper young hero leaves behind a star-crossed romance, the town of Ames' Crossing, and a telephone company repairman
to drive north into the great land that stretches before him, adventuring in search of his lost love, Margalo.

“Did he find her, Mama?” asked Millie.

“
Shhh
, silly, that's not the point,” said Margaret.

“Seems like it ought to be the point,” said Matilda.

“I don't know if Stuart found her,” said Mary. “But he never stopped believing he would, and he never stopped trying.”

Mary was going to say something wise about Stuart's quest, her own inadequate attempts at goodness, and the bravery all of them would need to face the future, but she heard a noise outside her nest; the guard was coming.

It would never do for her pups to worry about her. If they were to carry on with strength and confidence, they must think she was doing the same. So she arranged her ears, sat up straight on her haunches, and curled her tail neatly into a coil.

“Let us touch noses, each of us, one last time,” she said. “Auntie Edna will take good care till you're out on your own. And think of me sometimes, please”—her voice caught—“just as you think of your papa.”