Emmy and the Incredible Shrinking Rat

by Lynne Jonell

  There was a scraping sound in the hall, and a soft bump at the door. Emmy’s fingers tightened on her spoon as she looked up—and then she met Miss Barmy’s cheery smile.

  “What a lovely Saturday morning! Doesn’t the sunshine just make you feel lucky to be alive?”

  “I’m telling you, it’s weird.” Emmy stared out the window of the Antique Rat. On the far side of the green, Mr. Bee whittled peacefully in his doorway, ducking occasionally as his wife threw another flowerpot.

  “What?” Joe sprawled on the desk blotter, doodling with a broken bit of pencil. Nearby, Professor Capybara peered through the charascope, making notations on a small yellow pad.

  “I know what Miss Barmy’s done to me,” Emmy said moodily, “but when she acts so nice, I almost forget how nasty she really is.”

  “Dangerous,” said the professor at once, looking up. “Terribly dangerous, as her blood sample proves. Look here.”

  Emmy bent over the charascope as the professor slid a small rectangle of glass under the lens. The glowing bits she remembered swam in bright crystal patterns, replicating and splitting in a lively tumble of changing shapes. “I don’t get it. That looks just like the sample of your blood I saw before.”

  “It is my blood. Now look at this one, and compare.”

  Professor Capybara replaced the slide with another and Emmy looked through the eyepiece, blinking in surprise. The glowing brightness had become something murkier, like pond water seen several feet below the surface. The gleaming bits were still there, flipping and changing as she watched, but there was a dark edge to the patterns, and the shapes looked oddly distorted.

  “Let me see,” said Joe, and Emmy lifted him to the top of the charascope, where he stood on a brass fitting and put his whole head in the left eyecup.

  “Criminy! Look at the ball of nightcrawlers!”

  “What?” Emmy turned quickly. “Where?”

  “It just swam into view.” Joe swung out of the way as Emmy slid into the chair and bent her head.

  The ball was still there, green and wriggling, made up of dark, twisted wormlike shapes. Emmy had seen one of them before, in the professor’s blood; but this was a whole mass of them, writhing together. And as she watched, horrified, another worm cluster floated past, and then another.

  She sat back, feeling sick.

  “Not very pretty, is it?” The professor snapped off the light that illumined the slide and dusted off his hands. “We’ve all got a worm or two floating around, but let them linger and grow, and—well—that’s what you get.”

  Emmy whirled the swivel chair so she faced away from the desk. She didn’t want to waste one more minute thinking about Miss Barmy’s stupid ball of resentments. “Come on, Joe,” she said, putting out her hand for him to step up on. “Let’s help Brian with the chart. Your little eyes will be perfect for close-up work.”

  Emmy walked quickly home for lunch. The sun was warm on her face and the blossoming trees filled the air with scent, but she hardly noticed. She was wondering what her own blood would look like under the charascope.

  “Are we there yet?” The Rat, drowsing in the warmth of her shirt pocket, poked his nose out.

  Emmy stroked his head lightly. “You should have gone with Sissy. You would have been eating lunch at Mrs. Bunjee’s by now.”

  “Acorn soup,” said the Rat with disdain. “That’s not lunch, that’s punishment.”

  “Maggie might not give me any peanut-butter cups, you know.”

  “Do your best,” said the Rat cheerfully. “And put me on that vine below your window—I want to climb up and play on the train.”

  “But, Ratty—your ankle!”

  “All better,” said the Rat briskly. “We rodents heal rapidly. Besides, I have to get in shape for the next pawball game.”

  “But will they even let you play?”

  The Rat’s face split in a wide and ecstatic smile. “Chippy said I could—if I wrote the team song!”

  A shadow appeared in the doorway as Emmy mounted the back steps.

  “There you are, Emmaline, just in time for lunch!” Miss Barmy smiled broadly and opened the refrigerator to reveal a frosty glass. “I made a milkshake especially for you. It’s delicious!”

  Emmy stared at the creamy cold froth. Miss Barmy still seemed perfectly nice; it was unlikely that the milkshake contained Extract of Gerbil. And there was no explosive noise, no putrefying stench that would accompany a lie, so it must taste all right.

  But Emmy wasn’t going to take the risk. She hadn’t forgotten the mass of green worms she had seen in the charascope.

  “It’s so healthy, Emmaline,” said Miss Barmy, holding out the glass. “I’ve always wanted the very best for you, you know.”

  Emmy waited. A lie was a lie, no matter how much the person speaking might think it was true ….

  But there was no smell at all. Emmy glanced up sharply. Surely the Oil of Beaver couldn’t have worn off already?

  “Really, I insist,” said Miss Barmy. “Drink it.”

  Emmy’s gaze traveled down from Miss Barmy’s face to her fingers. Each of the nanny’s fingers was bandaged. There was a strong smell of antibiotic ointment, and several of the fingers had bled through the gauze.

  Miss Barmy must have scrubbed her fingers raw. And now there was no trace of Oil of Beaver left on her skin.

  Emmy looked at Miss Barmy’s smiling face and hooded eyes and saw that the professor had been wrong. The chinchilla effect was not going to last a week. It had not even lasted one day.

  “I need to go,” Emmy said suddenly, backing toward the door.

  “No,” Miss Barmy said, “you need to drink this. Now.” Her hand made a convulsive movement and she gripped her cane.

  Emmy pressed her hands against the screen door. “I’m going out. I want to—to play in the park.”

  Miss Barmy’s breath came and went with a quick rise and fall of her chest. “You’ll get dirty in the park.”

  “I want to get dirty!” said Emmy passionately. “I want to catch frogs and climb trees and—and build forts—”

  “Besides, you have a tennis lesson in an hour.” Miss Barmy’s voice was thin. “And little theater and basket weaving after that.”

  “I take too many classes,” said Emmy. “Do you know what I think?”

  Miss Barmy’s lip lifted in a slight sneer.

  “I think that kids should have time to just play. On their own. With no grown-ups around, trying to organize them.”

  “Do you indeed?” Miss Barmy said softly. “Well”—she looked down, smoothing her palm over the top of her cane—“perhaps you are right.”

  Emmy narrowed her eyes. It couldn’t be this easy. Standing up to Miss Barmy had never worked before.

  Miss Barmy was still looking down. Emmy followed her gaze.

  The nanny was stroking her cane, running her hand over the carved faces. Some of the blood from her fingertips left rust-colored streaks on the white, polished wood of the cane.

  Watching, Emmy felt a chill. The tiny hairs on her arms lifted.

  Miss Barmy, still looking down, smiled. “Yes, Emmaline. You should go to the park. Absolutely. Right now, if you like.”

  Emmy was out. Still a nagging uneasiness in the corner of her mind, vague and undefined, kept her from going too far away, and she kicked a stone along her street, thinking things through.

  Should she spy on Miss Barmy? But what good would that do? Extract of Gerbil was taken in through the mouth, so as long as Emmy didn’t eat or drink anything the nanny had touched, she would be safe. It wasn’t that hard to go without lunch for once—and she could always make it up later.

  She would go to the Antique Rat. Maybe the Professor and Brian and Joe had found something that would work on her parents.

  Emmy tossed back her bangs, suddenly annoyed. She was tired of waiting for other people to find something that would work. All right, then, she would just do the chinchilla trick again. Maybe she could build niceness up
in Miss Barmy’s system, the same way Miss Barmy had built up the opposite in her parents!

  Emmy trotted purposefully up the hill toward Main Street. It was a good plan, if temporary. In fact, she could just keep on using the chinchilla over and over until her parents came home from Alaska and Rome and wherever else they were going. It would mean weeks of strategy and careful timing, but it was better than stabbing the Endear Mouse in the heart.

  A small blue car turned the corner ahead and came toward Emmy. She ducked behind a convenient hedge as it slowed down. She’d caught a glimpse of the driver through the window, and he looked suspiciously like Dr. Leander, the school psychologist. The last thing Emmy wanted was to get into another discussion about problems.

  Dr. Leander stopped the car, unfolded a map, and looked vaguely around. Emmy shrank back into the shadow of the hedge. The polite thing to do would be to offer assistance, but Emmy already had to talk to him twice each month and that was more than enough. It wasn’t easy to talk to someone who kept searching for signs of mental illness. And finding them, probably, thought Emmy with a little grin, remembering the last time.

  Dr. Leander drove slowly on, down the hill and toward the lake. Emmy watched absently—until the car turned down her own driveway. And then the nagging, uneasy feeling that had been hanging over her sharpened, came to a point, and pricked her with a sense of clear and looming danger.

  “WE HAD NO IDEA.” Jim Addison’s voice was subdued. He looked at his wife.

  “No idea at all,” echoed Kathy Addison. “None.”

  Emmy shut her eyes and tried to control her breathing. Soft, soft—in through the nose, out through the mouth—

  She had run home, slipped quietly in the back door, and tiptoed through the house. The study door was open a crack; inside were her parents, Miss Barmy, and Dr. Leander.

  “I didn’t want to worry you,” said Miss Barmy. “I thought I could control Emmaline’s moods with a careful and healthful diet. And, too, I felt that Dr. Leander was keeping an eye on her at school. So I said nothing about the delusions, and the fits of temper, and the terrible rages—until last night, when I realized that she was a danger to herself—and to others.”

  Miss Barmy held up her hands with the fingertips wrapped in bloody gauze. Kathy Addison leaned forward in horror.

  “Emmy did that?”

  Miss Barmy nodded solemnly. “She bit them. All ten. She was like a wild animal.”

  Emmy stiffened in outrage, her eye to the crack.

  There was a rustle of paper. “She may have thought you were the giant spider trying to suck out her brains,” said the psychologist, consulting his notes. “Or—let’s see—the ten-foot-tall noodle? Perhaps she was only defending herself. These delusions can be very real to a person who is mentally ill.”

  Emmy winced. What had she said to Dr. Leander? She could hardly remember—but the giant sucking spider did sound familiar.

  “But what can we do?” Kathy Addison looked upset. “We’re flying to Alaska tonight, or we’d be at her side every minute—”

  Emmy sagged against the doorjamb. The chinchilla print wasn’t wearing off early. It couldn’t be, or her mother wouldn’t talk about going away when she thought her daughter was ill.

  “You don’t need to worry about a thing.” Miss Barmy spoke with firm authority. “I know just the place where she will be gently restrained and given the very best of care. And it’s only temporary, you know. When you get back from your travels, you can visit her, and take her back home if you think it’s the best thing to do.”

  “And what is this place, exactly?” Kathy Addison tapped her nails on the arm of her chair. “We only want the best for Emmy, you know.”

  “Coincidentally, one of the best institutions in the nation is right here in Grayson Lake. It’s very exclusive, and very expensive.”

  “Well, if it’s exclusive, it must be good,” said Emmy’s mother.

  “Spare no expense!” boomed Jim Addison. “Emmy’s got to have the best! I’ll write the check right now!”

  “Write it to the Home for Troubled Girls,” said Miss Barmy promptly. “I’ll get the commitment papers in order, and you can sign them this afternoon. By tonight, Emmaline will be taken care of, and you won’t have to worry about her ever again.” She paused. “Oh—and there’s one more little thing.”

  Emmy trembled. The Home for Troubled Girls! There was a weakness in her knees, and a sick feeling in her stomach. She put a hand over her mouth.

  “What if something should happen to you?” Miss Barmy’s voice was solemn. “Do you have a will that appoints a guardian for Emmaline, and an executor for the estate?”

  “Why, no, I don’t believe we do,” said Kathy Addison slowly. “Of course all our money would go to Emmy, but someone responsible would have to take care of it for her.”

  “We meant to write a will one of these days,” said Emmy’s father, “but we just never got around to it.”

  “If you like,” said Miss Barmy casually, looking at her nails, “we can take care of that this afternoon, too. I know a lawyer who would be happy to draw up the papers. Have you thought about who you might like to appoint as guardian?”

  “Why, you, I suppose, Miss Barmy,” said Kathy Addison. “We don’t really have any other relatives, to speak of.”

  “A wise choice,” said Dr. Leander, “given Emmy’s precarious mental state. Miss Barmy has been very concerned about Emmy this past year. I can assure you that she will be an excellent guardian.”

  “We might as well do it right,” said Jim Addison heartily, “and make Miss Barmy trustee, too. Bring that lawyer, and we’ll take care of business this afternoon. Make it before six o’clock, though.” He looked at his watch. “We’ve got a flight to catch.”

  Emmy backed slowly away from the study door. With shaking hands, she found the wall and climbed the stairs blindly.

  What now?

  There was a shuffle of feet in the foyer and the sound of voices. Emmy pressed against the wall, trembling with anger. They were going to get rid of her—like they would a dog that chewed the carpet!

  As if she had felt Emmy’s fierce gaze, Miss Barmy looked up. Emmy whirled up the second flight of stairs, dashed into her room, and wedged a chair under her doorknob.

  There. At least Miss Barmy couldn’t barge in on her while she was trying to think what to do.

  Muffled footsteps sounded on the stairs and progressed firmly toward Emmy’s room, with every so often a thunking sound, out of rhythm. Emmy backed away from the door, not breathing.

  There was a sound of metal sliding on metal, and the doorknob gave a soft click. The footsteps started up again, got fainter, went away.

  Emmy waited a moment. Then she slid the chair away, grasped the doorknob, and twisted. But it wouldn’t turn.

  She had been locked in her room.

  Emmy paced the floor, her cheeks hot and her eyes dry. Unless she did something fast, Miss Barmy was going to have her locked up and put away where even her friends couldn’t find her.

  Worse yet, Emmy’s parents were going to name Miss Barmy as Emmy’s legal guardian and the trustee of the estate. So if Kathy and Jim Addison died—or disappeared—not only would Emmy be under Miss Barmy’s control, but the entire Addison fortune would be as well.

  What was it Mrs. Brecksniff had said once? That all Miss Barmy cared about was the Addison money?

  Emmy shivered. Once those papers were signed, the only thing that would keep Miss Barmy from the money she wanted would be the fact that Emmy’s parents were still alive.

  Still … alive …. The words hung in Emmy’s mind, as if waiting for her to understand. And then all at once she did.

  The Extract of Gerbil had not been meant for her at all. It had been meant for her parents. Kathy and Jim Addison, aged 35 and 37, respectively, would become …

  Emmy’s mouth went dry as she did the math.

  Twenty-four hours after Miss Barmy slipped them the extract, her parents would
be 105 and 111. Tomorrow, somewhere in Alaska, two very elderly people would die among strangers.

  There was a soft sound of scampering feet. The Endear Mouse ran out from the playroom, up Emmy’s leg, and onto her knee.

  “What’s wrong?” The question was posed simply, mind to mind.

  Emmy bent her head down, near the mouse. It moved under the curtain of her hair to touch her cheek. And she was not surprised when, after a while, the Endear Mouse ran under the bed. It was all too much for such a little creature ….

  It was too much for Emmy.

  She stepped into her bathroom, washed out the soap dish, and dried it. Then she groped in the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a neatly folded tissue.

  She was having trouble seeing clearly. She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and dried her hand on her jeans before she laid the strands of her parents’ hair carefully in the shallow dish. She glanced in the mirror and then quickly away. Should she call the mouse? Would she have to catch it?

  There was a tug on her sock. Emmy bent down to see the Endear Mouse dragging what looked like a bit of paper …. It was the instruction tag. Tapedinside was the sharp, hollow needle.

  The Endear Mouse looked up at her with eyes that were bright and steady, and pressed its paw to her ankle. “Go ahead, Emmy,” came the thought, small and brave. “My heart is strong.”

  The tiny mouse stepped into her lowered hand. Its paws were white, its tail neatly curled, and its fur was so light that Emmy’s breath stirred it. She looked down at the small bit of life cupped in her palm and positioned the needle against its beating heart.

  And then—

  And then she couldn’t do it. She was going to have to do something else to rescue her parents, because as it turned out, she wasn’t a murderer.

  Emmy realized this fact with some relief. She threw the needle into the toilet along with the instruction tag and flushed. The Endear Mouse leaped from her hand and clawed its way up to the top of her head, trembling violently.

  “What’s this?” Emmy gently lifted the mouse out of her hair, disengaging the little claws that dug into her scalp. “You wanted me to stick a needle into your heart but you’re scared of a flushing toilet?”