Millhouse

by Natale Ghent

  Inside the attic, the mice escorted Milly toward a large, rusty pipe. There was just enough room for the pig to squeeze through the space around the pipe and slide down it into the pet shop.

  A group of wild baby mice who’d been goofing around in the shop watched with amazement as Milly and several dozen mice slid into the room.

  “Oooooooooo, a fireman!” they said, swarming the dazed guinea the second he touched down.

  Sergeant Squeak shooed them away, ordering two of his mice to keep the babies clear as they escorted the rattled guinea to the bottom of the pet food boxes, then stood guard as he climbed shakily up the boxes and into his cage.

  “Mission accomplished!” Sergeant Squeak barked. He nodded at Milly, then dismissed his troops, who disappeared without so much as a rustle through the hole in the wall, the baby mice giggling and saluting each other as they chased after them.

  “My own dear cage,” Milly moaned, grabbing an armful of cedar shavings and burying his face up to his ears. He was just nestling in when he heard a familiar voice.

  “I told you there were cats at the theater.”

  The pig turned in surprise. “Elliot!”

  The rat lay among the papers in his cage, his eyes as wide as saucers. “All them claws and teeth. Fur flying.” He shuddered. “What happened to you know who?” he asked, fixing Milly with a haunted stare.

  “Who?” Milly asked.

  The rat made a terrifying face, imitating the Pepper Brown.

  “Ah, the ferret,” Milly sighed. “I suspect he’s gone—vanquished at the claws of a ginger tabby.”

  The rat shuddered again. “What a way to go,” he whispered. “I—I couldn’t stand to watch.”

  “Well, that was evident,” the pig scoffed. “While you were running with your paws in the air, those mice were fighting to save my life. If it weren’t for them, I would never have made it back alive. Some chaperone you are.”

  “You were the one who wanted to bring your beads to the theater,” the rat said, jerking his paw violently in front of his eyes.

  “But you behaved shamelessly,” the guinea retorted. “Taking the branch and leaving me without a way home.”

  “I didn’t take that branch-a-ma-bub!” the rat said. “It was him.” He pointed at the ferret’s empty cage. “Splittered it to bits. I had to fuss my way up the wall and—pfffft!—through the sewer.” His eyes blinked wildly. “Nearly got myself flat-a-fied on the street.”

  “But you were supposed to be my chaperone,” Millhouse argued. “Imagine, a decorated soldier running like a pup from battle.”

  “I’ve never battled before,” the rat spluttered.

  “What?” the guinea gasped. “What about your medal?”

  “Scouts!” the rat snapped, as though the pig should have known. “I earned all kinds of badge-a-ma-bubs and things—baking, fire building, dancin’ … Still have most of ’em in this cage somewhere.” He rose and began frantically searching through his papers, muttering and blinking.

  Milly frowned. “Scouts? So what does the P in your name stand for? I thought it meant Private First Class.”

  The rat blushed as red as a cherry. “P is for Pe-tunia. It was my nickname as a pup on account of my velvety soft petals.” He stroked his ears lovingly.

  “For the love of Shakespeare,” Milly sighed. “I could have been killed.”

  “Here’s one!” the rat proudly exclaimed, producing a small red gingham badge from his shredded papers.

  “Great,” Milly grumbled, turning his back on the rat and burrowing himself beneath his shavings.

  “Good-night,” Elliot whispered. “Remember, all’s well that ends well.”

  Millhouse rolled his eyes. “Good-night, Petunia.”

  12

  Bad Boys

  It was a long while after the tragedy of the Pepper Brown before Millhouse had the desire to mention the theater, let alone “see” a production. Countless times he thought he saw the wicked ferret skulking through the shop at night. But it was only ever a shadow thrown by a passing car or the last rays of twilight playing tricks on the pig’s imagination.

  As the winter wore on, the memory of the ferret grew fainter and fainter, and Millhouse found himself yearning for the culture of the world once again.

  “I shall go mad if I don’t see a production,” he said one day, hanging the schedule in his cage to signal the wild mice.

  To the guinea’s pleasant surprise, the mice arrived the following night, just as before, bursting with news of the theatrical kind. How good it felt to be connected to the theater again!

  Milly set out his schedule night after glorious night. The mice proved dedicated to the arts, and Milly soon acquired a small but talented troupe. In fact, the mice became so good at conveying the feeling of the plays that Milly even convinced them to act out small parts. The mice overcame their shyness, boldly delivering their lines under the pig’s careful and passionate direction. They preferred the great tragedies most of all, re-enacting the fighting scenes with admirable zeal, much to the delight of the baby mice, who would cheer and clap and cry when the plays got sad, and even gave their own little performances of the parts they liked best.

  So while the other guineas spent their winter preening and gossiping and waving up at the White Collar’s high-rise, desperately trying to get him to notice them, and the white mice grew in number, and the gerbils spun endlessly around and around in their wheel, and the mole tallied the transactions in the shop, and the chameleons blinked and the goldfish gulped, Milly “saw” over twenty-three productions from five different theaters.

  What’s more, Milly’s prop room was positively bursting with theater treasure, including four tubes of lipstick, a false eyelash, the handle of a broken sword, several candle stubs and a pair of lacy black gloves.

  The rat was as supportive as ever of Milly’s theatrical endeavors, though he refused to leave his cage again. The other guineas, however, were more dismissive than before, especially the White Collar, who couldn’t seem to resist criticizing the plays by letting out a withering “boo” or a disgusted scoff. Even so, Milly would often spy the well-bred guinea watching secretly from his high-rise as the mice performed their parts. But whenever Milly waved or called to the White Collar to join them, the arrogant pig would retreat silently into the shadows of his cage.

  By the time the last traces of snow had melted, the ferret was all but forgotten. The spring sun was stretching happily across the pet shop as the wild mice prepared to migrate to their summer quarters at the baseball diamond. Milly sniffled out farewells, and the mice promised to keep him apprised of all things theatrical. The baby mice hugged and kissed and gazed at Millhouse until the pig was overcome with emotion and the older mice pulled them away.

  “Oh, I shall miss you!” Milly said, wiping a tear from his eye. “You’ve all been so very wonderful.”

  “Good-bye! See you soon!” the baby mice chimed as they scurried away through the hole in the pet shop wall. Several ran back into the room to wave one last time before they finally left. Milly waved back lovingly, a sentimental ache in his heart. “Ah, but life carries on,” he mused, uplifted by the sound of birds singing outside the pet shop window. “Perhaps today is the day someone will discover me.”

  Fussing and clucking about his cage, Milly busied himself with spring cleaning, his soft pink paws arranging his cedar shavings in a pleasing, neat shape. He was about to do his exercises when he heard the back door of the shop swing open and shut with a loud bang. The guinea consulted the clock on the pet shop wall. “Eight o’clock. Too early for the Weekday Man.” He listened intently as a familiar hoarse voice filtered in from the back room. “Why, it’s the Weekend Boy!” he exclaimed with surprise. “But today is only Wednesday!”

  A raucous burst of laughter filled the shop.

  “What’s this?” The pig cocked his head to listen. “Spring must be getting to the boy!”

  And then Milly heard another voice, an unfamiliar voi
ce. The Weekend Boy was not alone!

  There was another burst of laughter and the two boys appeared in the doorway. “Come on in,” the Weekend Boy said to his friend.

  The friend emerged. He was wearing a pair of faded and patched overalls. His hair looked like a dirty red mop fastened loosely to the top of his head. Freckles splattered his face like spring mud, and his front teeth were separated by a large and impudent gap.

  “So this is where you spend all your time,” the freckled boy said, glancing scornfully around the room. “Show me something cool.” He lifted a smoldering cigarette to his thin, angry lips.

  “Shakespeare’s bones!” Milly gasped at the sight of the cigarette. He immediately began jumping up and down, squealing and squeaking in protest. “You can’t smoke in here! This is a pet shop! Elliot has asthma! It makes my eyes water! It’s bad for your health! Haven’t you read the warnings on the box?”

  “What’s the matter with that stupid-looking thing?” Freckles asked, waving his cigarette at Milly.

  “Oh, he’s all right,” the Weekend Boy said. “He’s just a little kooky.”

  “Kooky!” Milly blustered. “See here! There’s no need to be rude!”

  Freckles ignored the affronted guinea pig. “Where’s the ferret?”

  The Weekend Boy shrugged. “Long gone. He chewed his way through the wire on his cage and escaped.”

  “Let me see the rat, then,” Freckles said, completely unconcerned for the ferret’s well-being.

  The Weekend Boy opened Elliot’s cage and pulled the frightened rat from his papers.

  Freckles held Elliot at arm’s length, squinting through the smoke from his cigarette. “Looks kind of scruffy,” he said.

  “You should talk!” Milly squeaked. “What impudence!”

  Elliot began to wheeze and cough, struggling to free himself. But Freckles just held him tighter.

  “Put that cigarette out this instant!” Milly yelled in the rat’s defense. “You have no right to be here. No right at all! How dare you poison innocent animals with your toxic fumes!”

  The rat twisted and turned, his eyes fluttering. Milly watched in shock as Freckles puffed a smoke ring in Elliot’s face. Then the rat did something Millhouse never expected.

  He peed on the boy.

  “Ahhhhhh!” Freckles screamed, the cigarette flying from his lips and hitting the floor in a shower of sparks before disappearing behind a bin of old newspapers. Freckles flung the poor rat to the ground. “You stupid thing!” he snarled.

  Elliot scurried back to his cage and dove to safety beneath his pile of papers. Freckles kicked the rat’s door shut.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” the Weekend Boy said.

  “Serves you right, you horrible brute!” Milly chided.

  Freckles turned to the guinea, seething. “What’s your problem?” he shouted. Then he banged his fist with such force on Milly’s cage that the poor guinea fainted in fear onto his pile of cedar shavings.

  When the pig came to, Freckles and the Weekend Boy were gone. The aquarium gurgled and bubbled in the corner, its liquid green light casting an eerie glow across the shop. All the animals—including Elliot—were resting quietly in their cages.

  “Imagine the nerve of that freckled boy!” Milly clucked. He rubbed his eyes and looked up at the clock. “Eight-twenty. I was out for nearly ten minutes. Ah, well. It’s nothing a good stroll won’t fix.”

  Milly brushed the shavings from his body and ran his paws through his beard. Opening his cage, he scampered down the boxes to the cool linoleum floor. Once there, he touched his toes with his fingertips three times for good measure, inhaled deeply, then exhaled loudly, swinging his small pink arms in wide circles over his head. He stretched to the very tips of his toes, shook all over, then marched into his prop room for inspiration.

  Milly considered one or two things before settling on the chamois. He draped the cloth boldly over one shoulder, tying it at the waist in what he believed to be a primitive fashion.

  “Fee-fie-fo-fum,” the pig growled as he burst from the prop room door. “I smell the blood of an Englishman.”

  The firefly suddenly appeared, fluttering wildly in Milly’s face.

  “What is it, my friend?” the guinea asked. “What has you so agitated?”

  The firefly flew across the shop, then back again. It was trying to tell him something. The guinea paused, his nose twitching. He sniffed the air two or three times. And then he gasped.

  “I smell smoke!”

  No sooner did he say this than the bin of old newspapers exploded in vicious orange and yellow flames. The firefly shot to one corner of the room as the pig staggered back, his eyes scorched by the heat of the fire.

  “Sweet Shakespeare!” the guinea cried, running panic-stricken around the shop, the chamois still tied across his shoulders and waist.

  The white mice heard the pig’s cries and began squealing and squeaking with fear. “What is it?! What’s happening?!” they asked, their high-pitched shrieks rousing the other animals, who immediately started shrieking and squealing themselves.

  In an instant the shop was filled with the terrified cries of the helpless animals. Thick plumes of black smoke rolled to the ceiling. Milly raced around, trying to think of a plan. But he couldn’t think of a single thing. His mind was blank. He was terrified!

  “Help us, Milly! Help us!” the other animals howled and wailed. And none yelled louder than the White Collar, his calculated voice now a shrill cry rising above the din.

  “Don’t be a fool, Millhouse!” he shouted down from his high-rise. “Climb up here and turn me loose!”

  “Over heaaar, Millhouse!” the Honey Cream squealed. “You know we’ve ahhl-ways been friends!”

  “Get me outta here!” the Abyssinian screamed.

  “Subtraction! Subtraction!” Abacus yelled.

  “M-M-Mill-HOUSE!” the gerbils stuttered in terror. “H-h-help us, p-p-please!”

  The fire raged in response, causing the Honey Cream to squeal so loudly she fainted.

  “Holy smokes! Get a grip on yourself!” the Abby shouted, throwing handfuls of shavings at the Honey Cream until she fluttered awake. But when the snooty guinea saw the flames, she squealed and fainted again.

  Elliot burst to the surface of his papers, blinking and twitching his whiskers. “What’s all the hubbub?” he asked. And then his jaw dropped. “FIRE!!” he hollered, running for his thimble. Filling it from his dish, he hurled the water with all his might through the bars of his cage. But the water missed the flames and instead splashed right in the Honey Cream’s face. She sputtered awake and immediately resumed squealing for Millhouse to help her.

  Milly raced around the shop, overwhelmed by the frantic cries of the other animals. He fell to his knees and began to weep, then jumped up and began madly running around again. “I must find some water,” he thought at last.

  He suddenly remembered the valve in the back room. It had a hose. He’d watched the Weekend Boy use it to clean the floor and the animal cages. He had to get past the fire and find that valve!

  Milly turned toward the back of the shop. The flames from the newspaper bin had jumped to the pet food boxes, draping the doorway in a wild curtain of fire.

  “I must find another way!” the pig cried. He turned from the hungry flames, his mind reeling with fear and confusion, and ran smack into the evil Pepper Brown.

  “What’s the matter, Millhouse?” the ferret hissed. “Seen a ghost?” He held up the smoldering butt of the freckled boy’s cigarette and blew on it until the ember glowed red.

  “You!” Milly cried. He shrank back, gaping at the Pepper Brown’s terrible face.

  One of the beast’s eyes was missing, and his nose was scrambled and torn. His whole body was a patchwork of scars, and he was limping painfully on his front paw.

  “It—it can’t be!” Milly gasped, his legs shaking. “The cat … I saw you …”

  “Tsk, tsk,” the ferret clucked. “Did you think I
was dead? Vanquished by the ginger tabby? Did you shed a tear for me, Millhouse?” He gave a deep, throaty laugh, then trained his one good eye on the guinea. “It isn’t polite to assume, Millhouse. You of all pigs should know that.”

  The fire leapt around them. Somewhere in the room a glass shattered from the heat. Milly gulped. He could see the bright orange flames dancing in the ferret’s eye.

  “But why?” Milly asked. “Why would you endanger so many lives? How could you set fire to this shop?”

  The ferret’s lips curled over his sharp yellow teeth. “I didn’t set this fire,” he scoffed. “I simply fanned the flames, so to speak.” He took a puff on the cigarette and blew the smoke into Milly’s face.

  “But I don’t understand,” the pig said, coughing from the smoke. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  The ferret sneered. “You think you’re so special.”

  “W-what?” the pig stuttered.

  “You think you’re the only one with talent and dreams.”

  “No, I don’t,” Milly said.

  The ferret took a step closer. “Ever since I first heard you deliver the lines of your beloved Hamlet, I knew I was destined to be a great thespian.”

  “Well, that’s marvelous—”

  “I could act circles around you if I wanted to,” the Pepper Brown cut him off, stabbing at the air with the burning cigarette. “So I forgot one line. That doesn’t make you better than me. I just needed more time to practice. And I would have, if you hadn’t hogged the stage every night, strutting around like some kind of virtuoso. Well, there’s only room for one great actor around here.”

  Milly’s jaw dropped. “Is that what this is all about?” He stared at the ferret in disbelief. “But we could have performed together! We could have been friends!”