by Lynne Jonell
The storefront was old-fashioned–looking, with vine-covered brick and broad windowsills. Emmy pressed her nose to the smudged and dusty glass. She could make out carved tables and chairs … she slumped, disappointed. It was just an ordinary antique store—the kind that the housekeeper, Mrs. Brecksniff, had dragged her into more than once when Miss Barmy had her day off. There were no cages, or rats, or any pets at all.
Emmy looked down at her feet, where the excitable puppy was licking her shoe. Maybe her parents would allow her to keep the puppy if she asked them. Sometimes, when they came home from a trip, they were very loving for a while. Emmy was scratching the puppy behind the ears, considering this, when a familiar rhythm stopped her cold.
It was the sound of footsteps. Firm footsteps. Rapid, purposeful footsteps, made by shoes with metal tips, and every so often another thunking sound, out of rhythm.
The puppy whimpered, and Emmy drifted like smoke deep into the shadowed entryway. Only one person in the world sounded like that when she walked.
Fighting an inner dread, Emmy quietly turned the brass doorknob of the Antique Rat. A bell tinkled faintly in a back room, and a fine dusting of grime sifted down from the top of the frame. Emmy eased the door shut and stood behind it. She could see a bit of the street from this angle, and her breath quickened as a woman’s legs came into view, along with a swinging cane. Lizard-skin shoes stopped abruptly, pointing at the storefront, and the cane came to rest. Miss Barmy was looking in the window.
Emmy flattened herself against the door. She didn’t need to look at the cane to see it. Made of hardwood, polished almost white, it was intricately carved with miniature faces, their hair intertwined. Miss Barmy said they were the faces of people she had taken care of. She’d promised that someday she would have Emmy’s face carved on one of the blank patches.
Emmy suppressed a shudder. Every grown-up who ever saw the cane told Emmy she was a lucky girl to have such a remarkable nanny. But something about the little faces bothered her.
The footsteps started up again. Emmy could hear them passing the window, scraping on the step, and stopping at the door. She slid sideways, silent as a cat, and crouched behind a large and dusty dresser just as the doorknob turned.
“Yes?” said a voice: a teenage boy, Emmy guessed. She pressed her face against the side of the dresser, breathing softly. It wasn’t that she was afraid of Miss Barmy—not exactly, she told herself. It would just be so much easier if she didn’t have to explain skipping ballet.
All was quiet. Emmy could almost feel Miss Barmy’s eyes looking the person up and down.
“May I help you?” The boy’s voice was patient.
“Who are you? Where is Mr. Vole?” Miss Barmy’s usually silken voice sounded abrupt.
“My uncle is out just now. Is there something I can do for you?”
The cane tapped on the floorboards. “I can’t wait. I’ll leave a message.”
“Yes?”
“Tell your—uncle, did you say?—that I want the usual,” Miss Barmy said sharply. “Tomorrow evening, ten minutes to six, on the dot.”
“The … the usual?”
“He’ll know what I mean. And I want it delivered quietly, you understand? Come to the back door and knock twice. I’ll be waiting.”
There was a soft sound of scratching, like a pencil on paper. “And the name?”
“He’ll know who I am,” Miss Barmy said coldly. “I’m the one who doesn’t pay.”
“D—doesn’t pay?” the boy stammered. “I don’t think my uncle will allow—I mean, his rates are very expensive—”
“They’re exorbitant, young man, they’re highway robbery. Fortunately, Mr. Vole and I have an agreement. Oh, he’ll be very glad to let me have the usual, for no fee at all. You’ll see.”
“Yes, ma’am. And where should it be delivered?”
“The old Addison mansion on Grayson Lake. It’s the last house on Loon’s Bay Road. Don’t forget—five fifty tomorrow, back door, double knock.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
There was a gritty sound of shoes turning, of steps, of the door creaking open.
Emmy held her breath.
“Tell your uncle to see to it personally,” Miss Barmy said, “or I shall be seriously disturbed.”
Emmy poked her head out as the footsteps died away.
The boy was tall and slightly pudgy, with stooped shoulders and a pale complexion. His ears stuck out from hair that needed a trim, but he looked at her kindly.
Emmy felt awkward. Should she apologize for listening in and hearing Miss Barmy order—what had she ordered, anyway? She glanced out the window in time to see Miss Barmy disappear into the shoe shop across the street.
Emmy shut her eyes. She had had a narrow escape.
“Feeling kind of shaky?” The boy’s hand on her elbow was warm. “Here, sit down. It’s the rats, you know.”
“The … the rats?” Emmy sat obediently on a green velvet chair embroidered with small white creatures.
“They make some people queasy.” The boy waved his hand at the cluttered interior of the shop. “My uncle’s got rats on the brain.”
Emmy followed the boy’s gaze. The shop was packed with furniture of all kinds—small round tables, straight-backed chairs, great gilded mirrors—and on every piece there was painted or carved or embroidered some kind of rodent for decoration.
“Do people actually—” Emmy paused, feeling that the question she wanted to ask was not quite polite.
“Buy this stuff?” The boy grinned and shifted his broom. “Not much. But sometimes people come for the real ones.”
“Your uncle sells rats?” Emmy was struck by a thought. “Does he catch them himself?” She waited for the answer, thinking worriedly of Rat, her rat. He was rude and ungrateful, but he was still her friend. Emmy didn’t think she could bear to see him caged again.
The boy shrugged. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But my uncle doesn’t collect ordinary rats, and the people who come here don’t want ordinary rats.”
He laughed, tucking a notebook and pencil into his back pocket. “I wouldn’t even say that the people who come here are ordinary people. A little weird, most of them.”
Emmy nodded. Miss Barmy was weird enough. What had she been doing in a rat shop, and what was it she wanted delivered to Emmy’s house tomorrow evening at ten minutes to six?
Emmy passed a hand over her forehead. Ballet probably wasn’t over yet. If she ran, she could make some excuse about why she was late. If she turned around and walked out right now, she could be through the dark alley and back in her safe and ordinary world in two minutes flat.
The boy peered at her. “You still look kind of squeamish. Rats are okay, once you get to know them. Better than people, sometimes.” His smile became a bit uncertain. “Want something to drink?”
Emmy nodded.
The boy led the way to an alcove in the rear of the store with a lumpy maroon couch. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.” He opened a door behind the couch and clumped up a set of long, narrow stairs.
There were books stacked on the couch with titles like My Life Among the Rats: A Memoir and Scientific Rodentology 101. Emmy was paging through one called Lemmings or Leaders? when she heard a rustling sort of noise. Instinctively, she pulled up her feet and looked under the couch.
There it was again! Something had rustled, behind that doorway hung with a red velvet curtain.
The boy tromped down the stairs. “Here.” He held out a glass of something fizzy. “My name’s Brian. What’s yours?”
“Emmy.” She took a sip and smiled at Brian. He was the homeliest teenager she had ever seen, but also—in an odd way—the nicest looking. He smiled back.
“Do you want to see the rats? You won’t be able to buy any—nobody buys them, they only rent them anyway—”
“You rent rats?”
“Uncle says they’re so rare, nobody can afford them. But it doesn’t cost anything to look.”
“Don’t worry, that’s just the beaver.” Brian patted the top of the cage. “She’s big but she’s gentle. Aren’t you, girl?”
A bell tinkled lightly. “I’ll be right back,” Brian said, brushing through the velvet curtain.
Was a beaver a rat? Perhaps a sort of cousin.
The beaver gazed at her through tired-looking eyes. “Poor thing,” said Emmy, moving on.
Cage after cage held some kind of rodent, from the Giant Rat of Sumatra to the tiniest vole, each with its own label, and most seemed irritable, or worse. Emmy was beginning to wonder if the Rat had been a particularly good-tempered specimen after all when she caught sight of a very small mouse with big ears and huge, dark eyes. It looked appealingly at her and touched one small paw to the bars of its cage.
Emmy squatted on her heels, peering in. What a tiny little thing, and so pretty! Its fawn-colored fur looked as soft and light as dandelion fuzz. Longing to hold it in her hand, Emmy ignored all the warnings Miss Barmy had ever given against touching strange animals and put one finger between the bars.
The little mouse curled its tail up tight. It looked at Emmy, its enormous brown eyes thoughtful. And then it reached out a paw and patted Emmy’s finger exactly three times in quick succession.
It clasped its paws immediately behind its back as if waiting for her to make the next move, and Emmy sucked in her breath. It was too much to believe that she should find another rodent as exceptional as the Rat. But— “Can you speak?” she whispered.
The mouse looked at her attentively but said nothing. Emmy lifted the tag that was attached to the cage. “Endear Mouse,” she read aloud.
Emmy had heard of deer mice before, but never an endear mouse. “Must be a misprint,” she decided, turning the tag over. And there, on the other side, in very small type, she read: “Endear Mouse. Makes the absent heart grow fonder. Use as directed. Satisfaction guaranteed.”
“Makes the absent heart grow fonder,” Emmy whispered. “Do you really?”
The tiny mouse looked at her for a long moment. Then it placed its two front paws over its chest and bowed very low.
“Do you—” Emmy paused, swallowing painfully. “I mean, can you do it for two absent hearts? Grown-up ones?”
The mouse looked searchingly at Emmy with its dark, beautiful eyes. And then it smiled ever so slowly and gently. It nodded twice.
Desire flooded Emmy’s heart and brain. If only, if only … could she somehow buy this mouse? How much was it? For the first time ever, she felt glad to be rich. She had a room full of expensive toys that she hardly used. Could she sell those? Emmy whirled to her feet, unable to sit still, and began to pace.
She looked at the other cages. What other wonderful things could these rats do? She turned over tag after tag, reading. “Infusion of courage.” “Guaranteed to sniff out a lie.” “To induce calming sleep.” “Makes the fat become thin.” “Triples maturity.” “Grows thick hair fast.”
Emmy’s eyes wandered from cage to cage. No wonder these rodents were expensive. People would pay almost anything to have some of these things; and there were more that she hadn’t even read yet. Emmy reached for the next tag—and stopped with her hand in midair.
The animal slumped in the cage was an ordinary gray rat, the size of a squirrel. But on the back of its head, visible just behind the ear, was a triangular patch of white fur.
“RAT!” GASPED EMMY.
The rodent ignored her.
“Listen”—Emmy gripped the cage, frantic to get the animal’s attention—“I’ll get you out, no matter what it costs.”
There was a sound of footsteps behind her, and a swish of the velvet curtain. “Brian!” cried Emmy, without turning around. “How much is this rat?”
“More than you have in your piggy bank,” rasped an unfamiliar voice. “Get your fingers away from that cage! If you’re bitten, you’ll be sorry!”
Emmy turned her head. Brian was hovering apologetically in the background. In front of him stood what could only be the uncle.
Shorter than his nephew, he looked like someone who had shrunk while his clothes hadn’t. His trousers were loose and belted high, his shirt was at least two sizes too big, and he exuded the musty smell of a closet that hadn’t been aired for years.
“Emmy, this is my uncle, Professor Vole.”
A professor? thought Emmy, incredulous. A professor of what? Rats?
“Nice to meet you,” she said, lifting her chin. “But I don’t use piggy banks. I prefer blue chip stocks.” Not for nothing had she listened in on conversations about her parents’ investments.
“Well.” Professor Vole placed his fingertips together. “In any case, that particular rat is not for sale. Look at the tag, little girl.”
Emmy lifted the tag, irritated. She was almost eleven: hardly a little girl anymore. “Shrinking Rat of Schenectady,” she read aloud, and turned it over. “Sold in pairs only.”
Emmy frowned. The Rat was still hunched over, unmoving. What had this—this rat man done to him? Just a short time ago he had been as sassy and full of himself as always, and now …
“That’s my rat,” she said firmly. “You must have just caught him. I saw him somewhere else only an hour ago.”
Professor Vole blinked. “You saw another rat, you say?”
“No, this one. I’d know him anywhere.”
The man tapped his fingertips together one after the other, looking thoughtful. “Brian,” he said, “how long have you cared for this particular rat?”
“Ever since you brought me here to work. Almost a whole month.” Brian smiled his kind smile. “So it can’t be yours after all, Emmy.”
Emmy looked at Brian. His face was transparently honest; it was impossible to imagine him telling a lie.
“Maybe—” She paused. “Could it be another rat that looks like him?”
“Yes.” Professor Vole’s fingers interlocked. “And where, exactly, did you see this other rat?” His voice was carefully casual, but behind his gold-rimmed spectacles, his eyes glinted.
“Oh, around,” said Emmy uneasily. “But—”
“But what, my dear?” Professor Vole reached out a bony hand, his thin lips stretched in an attempt at a smile. “Brian, get our guest another soda.”
Brian backed out, looking worried.
“But how can there be two rats with the exact same patch of white fur behind the ear— Hey! That hurts!”
The bony fingers clutched her arm. The rat man bent until his face was almost touching hers. Emmy could see the dark pores on the end of his beaky nose and short hairs like bristles poking out from his nostrils.
“What did you say?” His voice was fierce.
“I said, ‘That hurts!’” Emmy tried to pull her arm away, but his grip was unrelenting.
“No, before that. What were you saying about two rats?” The man squeezed a little harder.
“I said it was odd to have two rats the same—”
“And the white patch behind the ear?”
“Yes!” Emmy gasped. “Just the same—”
“What was the shape?” he demanded, his breath smelling like stale crackers. “A circle? A square?”
“No—a triangle—please let me go, I haven’t done anything—”
With a grip like iron, the professor turned Emmy to face the cage. “There!” he said, his voice reedy with excitement. “Think! Was your rat’s white patch behind the right ear, like this one, or the left?”
Emmy looked, trembling. The
white patch was certainly behind the right ear on the rat in the cage. But how could this awful man expect her to remember which ear it was behind on her rat? And how in the world was she supposed to think when she was terrified?
But any idea she had about asking him these questions was quickly rejected at the sight of his face. His watery blue eyes were popping with red veins, the sinews on his neck stood out like waxed rope, and altogether he had such a look of deranged lunacy that Emmy shut her eyes.
Think, think. When had she last noticed the Rat’s white patch? He had been up in the tree … the squirrel had thrown a nut … he had fallen down, down, into her hands ….
Emmy concentrated. She had held the Rat. She had stroked the white patch. She remembered how the fur disappeared under her thumb and then sprang back into place ….
She opened her eyes. “It was the left ear!” She laughed in relief. “You were right, this one isn’t my rat. I’m so sorry.”
The rat man’s stained teeth showed in an elated grin, and he clapped his hands together.
Completely mental, Emmy thought, backing up. She lifted the velvet curtain—
“Where is this rat?” The professor moved to block her way. “I’ll pay any price you ask!”
“He’s … not mine,” Emmy stammered. “He’s the classroom pet.”
“What class? What school?” The man’s voice shook. “Has he bitten anyone? Is he locked up?”
Emmy couldn’t admit that she’d let the Rat go—this demented man was capable of anything. “He was still in his cage when I left class today,” she said truthfully, sliding her feet another few inches. She ducked behind the curtain.
“Here you go, Emmy. Want a root beer?”
Brian looked down at her with a grin. He had positioned himself squarely in front of his uncle.
She took her chance. Running like a rabbit, she dashed for the door. Behind her, she heard a crash and some violent swearing, but by then she was out and pelting down the street as if the Giant Rat of Sumatra were after her. She leaped over the garbage in the alleyway and burst out onto the Main Street sidewalk, panting.