Emmy and the Rats in the Belfry

by Lynne Jonell

  “Is that Ana?” Joe cocked his head, listening. “She’s getting better.”

  “She took lessons for a couple of years, before Miss Barmy. I think it’s coming back to her.”

  “Good,” said Joe. “She needs some fun while she’s stuck inside.” He dug in his back pocket and pulled out a small book.

  Emmy winced. Although he didn’t complain, Joe looked at his Scout handbook every chance he got. He would rather be at home, earning his badges, Emmy knew.

  As for herself, she hardly knew where she wanted to be. It was hard labor at the house on Cucumber Alley. But she didn’t want to go home, not as long as the great-aunts needed her. And not until she had found Sissy.

  “Kick! Kick! Higher!” Raston urged from below.

  Emmy looked down. The rats had moved to the terrace on top of the dollhouse, where there was more room to move around.

  Ratmom grunted, her eyes bulging. “I am kicking!” she whimpered. “This is as high as my legs go!”

  “Feel the power in your spine, press your sacrum to the ground—”

  “Press my what?”

  “—and chant ‘I am feeling flabulous! I am feeling flabulous!’”

  “I am feeling pain!”

  “That’s not pain, that’s the feeling of flab leaving your body,” said the Rat earnestly.

  Emmy and Joe snorted at the exact same time and got root beer up their noses. By the time they had calmed down and found tissues, Ratmom was crying again, slobbery and loud.

  “We’re going to have to hide the root beer,” Joe murmured. “And the ginger ale, just to be safe. She’s always weepy when she’s guzzling.”

  “Who knew it could affect rats like that?” Emmy rubbed at her nose, which still felt fizzy. “Or some rats, anyway. Maybe only rats of power that live on the island.”

  “Speaking of rat powers …” Joe shut his Scout handbook and tucked it away. “I’ve been wondering about that thing Ratmom does with the plant. It seems pretty useless—”

  “No kidding!”

  “But I wonder if there’s more to it than just making a plant curl up and die.”

  “What do you mean?” Emmy shrugged. “She dropped a tear on a fern, and it shrank down into the dirt. That’s all.”

  Joe frowned slightly. “Still, it might be a dangerous power, don’t you think? I mean, what if her tears could kill something besides a plant?”

  Emmy watched as Raston prodded at his mother, who had wiped her eyes and was on her back attempting to do leg lifts. “She doesn’t look like a killer.”

  There was a heavy thump as Ratmom’s legs gave out and hit the floor. In the next instant she was wailing. “I’m a failure … a total failure …”

  “Well, not total,” said the Rat.

  “It was my fault that I lost you!” she cried. “I left the nest for a minute to visit the next burrow for a new recipe—fried grubs, very tasty—and when I came back, you were gone! Oh, let me hold you—let me pretend you’re still my little ratbunny …”

  “Oh, all right,” said Raston testily. “But I’m not wearing a baby bonnet.” He lay his head in his mother’s lap and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Ratmom burst into a flood of tears, rocking him back and forth. “Oh, Rasty, my little Rasty-Roo …”

  “Do you have to blubber all over me?” demanded the Rat. “You’re getting my fur wet!”

  “Hey!” Joe moved suddenly on the stairs. “Stop crying, it’s dangerous! Your tears could kill him, just like they killed that fern!”

  Raston looked up, his mouth open.

  Ratmom shook her head. “My tears never kill the plant. They just make it curl right up again and go back to being—” She blinked.

  “A seed?” demanded Joe.

  “A spore,” whispered Ratmom, moving a moment too late to catch the single tear that rolled off her cheek and straight into Raston’s open mouth. And then, as quickly as the fern had gone back to being a spore, Raston curled up, grew small, and—

  “Waaah! Waaah! Waaaaaaaah!” cried baby Rasty.

  Emmy and Joe dashed down the stairs. Ana left the piano. For one long, speechless moment, they all stared at the squalling, squirming, furry infant in Della’s arms.

  Joe stuck his hands in his pockets. “No offense, but I’m not changing his diapers.”

  Ratmom’s shocked expression changed to dismay. “Oh, Rasty! I didn’t mean to do it!”

  “Don’t drop any more tears in his mouth, whatever you do!” Emmy snatched baby Raston up and cradled him in her palm, safely away from the blubbering Della.

  “Waaaaaaah! Wah wah wah wah waaaaaaaaaah!” howled Ratty, kicking her thumb.

  “Put him down, Emmy,” said Joe. “What if he bites you?”

  Hurriedly Emmy searched the dollhouse for a cradle and tucked Ratty in with a bit of blanket. “Keep Ratmom away from him,” she ordered. “I’ll be right back.”

  She rummaged in the kitchen cupboards until she found what she needed: a tiny glass bottle. She rinsed it out and brought it back, drying it on her shirt.

  She presented the bottle to Della. “Listen. Your tears are dangerous. So anytime you cry, collect them in this bottle. And don’t forget to put the cap back on—tight!”

  Della, sobbing even harder, dipped her head so the tears slid down her nose. The clear, shining drops fell in the bottle.

  Raston was still screaming. It was a piercing sound, shrill and surprisingly loud. Upstairs, Aunt Melly appeared at the landing. “What on earth is that noise? Gussie needs quiet.” Her hand fluttered to her throat. “Oh, she’s suffering so!”

  Ana went quickly up the stairs. “I’ll help, Aunt Melly.” She whispered over her shoulder, “Keep him quiet!”

  Emmy and Joe tried. They rocked him in the cradle. Emmy sang to him, and Joe made funny faces, but baby Ratty only screamed harder.

  “Food!” said Emmy. “Maybe he’s hungry!”

  “But what do we feed a baby rat?” Joe shifted his weight uneasily.

  “Milk,” said Ratmom, sniffling in a corner of the dollhouse terrace. “Two percent.”

  But a drop of milk, aimed directly into his open mouth, only made him sputter and spit it out. And when Emmy, in desperation, gave him a crumb of a peanut-butter cup, he choked.

  “Oh, my baby, my baby!” wept Ratmom, lumbering toward the cradle.

  “Hey! Don’t touch him while you’re crying!” Joe blocked Ratmom’s progress with a doll’s dresser. “Crikey, I wish they’d all just dry up. Here, Ratty, I’ll give you a horsey ride.”

  Baby Raston was screaming so hard his tail was stiff and his ears were bright red. Joe tipped the cradle and the Rat came out in a tangle of blankets and kicking feet, his tiny mouth wide open like a steam whistle.

  “I need some earplugs,” said Joe, balancing the Rat on his forefinger and moving it up and down. “Here, Ratty, this is the way the horsey goes, walk, walk, walk!” He moved his finger a little faster, and said, “This is the way the horsey goes, trot, trot, trot!” Then faster still: “This is the way the horsey goes, gallop, gallop, gallop!”

  Joe tipped up his finger, tumbling the ratling into his waiting palm. Baby Raston gave one last sob, hiccuped, and lifted his tiny head. “Mo!”

  Joe looked down at him. “What?”

  “MO!”

  “I think he means ‘more,’” said Emmy, grinning. “Looks like you have the magic touch.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to keep bouncing him all day long—”

  “MO MO MO MO MO!” demanded the baby rat, scrunching up his furry face.

  “Okay, okay!” Joe hastily put the Rat back on his fingertip and began to bounce. “This is the way the horsey goes … Listen, Della, how long until he goes back to normal? This is going to wear off, right?”

  “Don’t ask me,” said Ratmom, capturing a final tear in the bottle. “Maybe it doesn’t wear off.”

  “Oh, great,” said Joe. “Just what I wanted to hear.”

  “Twot!” shou
ted baby Raston.

  Joe gave Emmy a haggard look.

  “I think he means ‘trot,’” said Emmy. “And weren’t you the one who said I shouldn’t hold him in my hand? You’d better get Aunt Melly to lend you a glove.”

  “Oh, yeah, right!” Joe hurriedly set Ratty in the cradle. The ratling, after one incredulous look, squeezed his eyes shut, opened his mouth, and began to wail—heartbroken, piercing sobs that brought Ana to the top of the stairs once again. “Aunt Gussie’s trying to rest. Can’t you stop that noise?”

  “Oh, sure,” said Joe, “if I smothered him. Why don’t you come down and keep him quiet, if you think it’s so easy?”

  Emmy, rummaging in the closet, came up with a lady’s leather glove. Joe yanked it on and began to horsey-ride the Rat once more.

  Ana came down the stairs with a tray in her hands and glanced at Ratmom. “I’ve been thinking. The fern didn’t become a baby fern—it went all the way back to being a spore, right?”

  Ratmom wiped her nose with her paw and then nodded.

  “But Ratty only went back to being a baby. And he didn’t go all the way back to newborn, either, because newborn rats don’t have any fur.”

  “Hey, that’s right!” Joe looked at Ratmom. “Does a teardrop just take off a certain number of years, then?”

  Della shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “How many?” Emmy asked at once. “In human years, I mean, not rat years.”

  Ratmom brightened. “Let’s see …” She began to calculate on her paws. “Four point three times seven, to the nth power, divided by x squared, plus or minus the gradient of the coefficient in the vector analysis in base eight …” Her voice trailed away in confusion.

  “I’d say ten years or so,” said Ana firmly. “In human years, Ratty was about your age or a little older. Take ten years from your ages and you get a baby. It stands to reason.”

  “But how do you know he was our age?” Joe asked, still gently bouncing the Rat up and down.

  “He couldn’t have been much older. He wasn’t interested in getting all mushy with girl rats yet.”

  Joe grinned. “Good point.” He glanced down at the small rat on his finger. “Hey, I rocked him to sleep! About time!” He laid baby Raston carefully down, and Ana covered him with a doll’s blanket.

  “I hope he sleeps the night through,” Ana whispered. “Don’t you, Emmy?”

  Emmy did not answer. She was staring at the bottle between Ratmom’s paws. Ten years … She looked up the stairway to the second-floor landing, where a thin sliver of Aunt Gussie’s bedroom door could be seen. “I wonder if a teardrop would work on a human?”

  Ana’s hand flew to her mouth.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” said Joe.

  “No,” said Ana. “What if something goes wrong?” She poured Aunt Gussie’s medicine into a small plastic cup and filled a glass of water at the kitchen faucet.

  “Just one drop can’t hurt,” Emmy argued. “If she was ten years younger, she wouldn’t be sick anymore.”

  “Make it two drops,” Joe said. “One drop will only bring her down to seventy or so. That’s still really old—how are we even going to tell the difference?”

  “Hey, maybe we should do three!” Emmy followed Ana into the hall. “If we put it in her water, it’s diluted!”

  Ana set down the tray on the table beside the dollhouse with a thump. “Look. I’m the oldest, and I say we shouldn’t.”

  Emmy stood a little taller. “She’s my aunt. I say we should.”

  Joe looked from one to the other.

  Della gasped, pressing a paw to her heart. “You’re going to use my tears to help Gussie?”

  “Yes,” said Emmy.

  “No,” said Ana.

  “What’s the matter?” Della threw back her head to glare at Ana. “Aren’t my bodily fluids good enough for you?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I suppose it’s because I’m a sloppy torch singer who does cheap parlor tricks in a rowdy riverfront bar!” She twisted a corner of her shapeless cardigan sweater. “Not everyone can be flabulous, you know!”

  “Use the tear bottle,” Joe reminded her.

  “Maybe I am a failure!” sobbed Della. “Everything I do is wrong!”

  “Not everything,” said Emmy.

  “It’s true! I left the nest, and my children were stolen. I tried to save Rasty, but I almost drowned him. Sissy is still lost, I’m not fit or flabulous, I can’t work at The Surly anymore—”

  “Not since you cracked the bouncers’ heads together,” Joe agreed.

  “And now I’ve turned my son into a screaming baby! I’m a bad mother!” She reared back, swaying on her haunches, and reached for her bottlecap. It was dry.

  “And now I’m even out of—hic!—root beer. Pleeeease can I have some more?”

  “It doesn’t do you any good,” said Ana severely.

  “I could give it up,” said Della, pressing a paw to her heart, “if I knew I wasn’t a total failure. If I thought that … maybe … I could help old Gussie?” She sniffled, wiped a paw across her eyes, and looked up hopefully.

  The children turned their backs to confer.

  “Give me a break,” said Ana. “I’m not going to agree just to get a rat to give up root beer.”

  “You should agree for Gussie’s sake,” said Emmy sternly.

  “But you can’t just decide to make someone younger without their permission!” Ana cried. “It’s not medically ethical! It’s against the Hippocratic oath!”

  “I don’t even know what that means,” said Joe, “but I vote with Emmy.”

  “Something could go wrong,” Ana insisted.

  Emmy gripped Ana’s wrists. “But if we don’t do something, Gussie is going to die.”

  Ana was silent a moment. “Let’s ask Aunt Melly. If she says we can use the tears on Gussie, then all right.” She glanced past Emmy. “Hey! Get off the tray!”

  Della turned, the tear bottle clutched in her paws. “But I want to come, too! I want to watch my tears make Gussie well!”

  “We don’t even know if we’re going to use them.” Joe took the bottle and set Della back in the dollhouse. “You’d better stay with Ratty. He might start crying again.”

  The children knocked softly at the sickroom door and entered.

  A single lamp lit the curve of Aunt Melly’s neck as she knelt by the side of the bed, her face buried in the bedclothes. On the pillow, Aunt Gussie’s white hair looked like a halo, and she breathed in long, raspy sighs.

  Joe tried to back out. Emmy caught him by the sleeve.

  “This is creepy,” he whispered.

  Ana set down the tray and knelt on the other side of the bed. “Aunt Melly,” she began, and hesitated.

  “Go on,” Emmy said, very low. “You’re the one who wanted to ask her.”

  Ana pushed her bangs out of her eyes and started to explain about the fern and Ratmom’s special power. She didn’t get very far before Aunt Melly lifted a tearstained face.

  “I’m sorry,” she faltered. “I can’t really listen right now … oh, Gussie! Dear sister!” She pressed her face back into the blankets, and her shoulders shook with muffled sobs.

  Emmy ducked down behind the bed. “This isn’t going to work,” she muttered.

  Joe nodded. He picked up the tiny bottle of tears and uncapped it. “One drop or two?” he mouthed.

  Emmy held up two fingers.

  “Hey!” Ana whirled around, jostling Joe’s elbow. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Yikes,” said Joe, looking in dismay at the water glass.

  “How many drops?” Ana hissed.

  “I don’t know! You bumped against me when I was pouring!”

  “More than two, anyway,” said Emmy. “Nice going, Ana.”

  “It wasn’t my fault!” said Ana. “I wasn’t the one putting in drops after we agreed—”

  “Please!” Aunt Melly struggled to her feet. “I don’t know what
you’re bickering about, but enough! Hand me the tray. It’s time for Gussie’s medicine.”

  Ana shot one more glare in Emmy and Joe’s direction and handed over the tray. “Don’t give her the water, Aunt Melly, it’s not safe—”

  “Yes, I know. There’ll be less chance of her choking if we give her ice chips. But help me give her the medicine now. Joe, Emmy, get on either side and prop up her shoulders.”

  Emmy slipped an arm beneath Aunt Gussie’s back, feeling her slight weight and the shoulder blades that stuck out like wings. Joe’s hand crossed under hers and gripped her forearm.

  “Now, lift.” Aunt Melly put the cup of medicine to her sister’s lips. “Swallow, Gussie, dear.”

  Aunt Gussie’s cracked lips fumbled on the edge of the plastic cup, and Aunt Melly tipped it carefully, not losing a drop. The sick old woman swallowed convulsively and her eyelids fluttered.

  “Is that better?” Aunt Melly caressed her sister’s thin, pale hand. “I think it does you good …”

  “Oh!” Gussie’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, my!” She sat up in bed. “I feel so much better!”

  “Really?” Aunt Melly’s face was joyful. “Oh, darling Gussie, suddenly you look ten years younger!”

  “I feel ten years younger!” cried Gussie. “No, twenty!”

  Emmy looked at Joe across the bed. “Did you put teardrops in the medicine?” whispered Emmy.

  “Not me,” said Joe.

  “Well, somebody did,” Emmy said, unable to take her eyes off the middle-aged Aunt Gussie sitting bolt upright in the middle of her bed. No, not middle-aged—

  “Gussie!” Aunt Melly’s hands flew to her throat. “You don’t—you don’t look a day over thirty—”

  Aunt Gussie’s wrinkles smoothed out. Her hair went from white to a deep chestnut brown. Her eyes grew bright, and her skin youthful, and all at once she looked younger than thirty, she looked twenty.

  The young Aunt Gussie gave them an enchanting smile.

  “You’re so pretty!” breathed Ana, and Joe nodded, mesmerized.

  “I feel a little gawky,” said Aunt Gussie, and it was true—she was changing before their eyes again, looking awkward and coltish, her arms too long for her body, her face angular, her mouth too wide for her chin.

  “She’s a teenager,” said Ana. “Maybe fourteen—no, thirteen—”