How the Grinch Stole My Heart

by Annabelle Costa

  This was probably real funny to him—the crippled guy has to deal with a mouse in his apartment. That kid has no clue. He doesn’t know what it’s like to get out of breath walking the length of a city block. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be scared of falling with every step. He’s probably got two loving parents, maybe a sibling or two, and in a week, he’ll have a pile of presents under his Christmas tree. Meanwhile, whenever I think of Christmas, I feel dizzy and nauseous.

  “I’ll bring the mouse back to him, Mr. Grieder,” Luis says. “I’m sure he’ll be very happy.”

  Yeah. I’m sure he will.

  After Luis leaves, I can’t stop fuming. That kid let a goddamn mouse loose in my apartment. I can’t just let him get away with this shit. I don’t care if that makes me Mr. Wilson. I don’t care if I’m Scrooge. I don’t even care if I’m a grumpy old Grinch.

  I grab my crutch and stomp out in the hallway to apartment 5H. The hallway is carpeted, which is not my favorite thing to walk on. Carpeting loves to snag my toes. I’ve got lots of experience walking on this particular carpet, but right now, I’m so mad, I’m almost shaking. Not a good combination.

  And naturally, 5H is all the way at the end of the hall, around a bend. Isolated and quiet. Lucky them.

  I reach out my left hand to ring the doorbell. I hear the “ding-dong” sounding inside the apartment. Then I rap on the door too for good measure.

  I look down at my right arm, which has tightened up so much, my fist is nearly at my throat, frozen in place. My right leg is spasming, making it hard for me to stand. I don’t exactly look intimidating.

  So it’s almost a relief when nobody answers.

  I’m sure Henry’s family has a healthy social life. I’m sure they’re not sitting home every night like I am, watching episodes of Walking Dead or Modern Family.

  But they’re going to find out what a brat their little kid is. I’ll make sure of that.

  Chapter 26: Noelle

  Dear neighbor,

  This evening, I found your son’s rodent loose in my apartment. I have no idea how long he was in my apartment or what food in my pantry he might have contaminated, because I was not made aware you released vermin in the building. In the future, I expect you to make a better effort to keep your child’s unsanitary pets contained in their cages, or failing that, within your own apartment.

  Sincerely,

  Apartment 5B

  What. Nerve.

  That’s the note I discovered taped to my door when I get home from Shannon’s. When Luis brought Edgar to Shannon’s place in the big Tupperware container, he mentioned the tenant who had found the mouse wasn’t too happy about it.

  “You better not lose him again,” Luis said when handed me the mouse. “If that guy finds him again, he might just flush him down the toilet.”

  Who would do that to a poor little defenseless mouse? Also, Edgar would definitely stop up a toilet. “Who was it? I should apologize.”

  Luis hesitated. “Mr. Grieder in 5B.”

  I winced. Of all the places Edgar could have ended up, that was the absolute worst. If a Christmas tree got the Grinch angry, he must have been furious when he found a mouse. But I fully intended to go over there and apologize. And while I was up to it, put in a good word for Fanny.

  Now? No way.

  The worst part is the note is typed. He actually got on his computer and drafted a formal note to tape to my door.

  I want to believe Mr. Grieder isn’t a bad guy. I want to believe he’s a lonely old man who feels bitter about the holiday because he has nobody to spend it with. But every interaction I’ve had with him makes me more and more certain that isn’t the case. Some people are jerks. They just are.

  Honestly, even thinking about my upcoming date with Jeremy doesn’t make me feel better about this.

  Well, maybe a little better.

  Okay, a lot better.

  I go into Henry’s room, where he’s watching Edgar run on his little treadmill. Henry’s face is pressed nearly against the cage—so close that I’m certain Edgar will nip at his nose. But no, Edgar wouldn’t do that. I’m the only person that mouse sees fit to bite.

  It would have been nice if he’d taken a little bite out of Mr. Grinch. Of course, if he had, the guy would probably be suing me right now.

  “I love Edgar,” Henry says. “I’m really glad he’s okay.”

  “I’m glad he’s okay too,” I say, which isn’t entirely a lie. I’m glad Edgar’s okay for Henry’s sake.

  “Do you love him too?”

  “Um…” I definitely do not love the mouse. I’m not certain if I hate him, but either way, I’m not capable of feeling love for a mouse. I mean, it’s a mouse, for God’s sake. “Well, he’s a mouse, so…”

  “Yeah, but there are a lot of lovable mouses,” Henry says. “What about Stuart Little?”

  “Well, that’s true…”

  “And Mickey Mouse.”

  “I guess…”

  “And Fievel Mousekewitz.”

  I finally smile. “Very true. I guess I can love a mouse.”

  But not that mouse. Sorry, but he bit me!

  “Listen, Henry,” I say.

  “Uh huh.” He doesn’t look up. He’s too busy staring lovingly at his mouse. I wish he had that kind of patience when it came to his homework.

  “I don’t think you should take Edgar out of his cage again for a while.”

  Henry jerks his head around to stare at me. There are some moments when he looks so much like Greg that it’s scary. “What? Why not?”

  “Because.”

  “Because what?”

  I don’t know why I bother with my “because” excuse. It never, ever works.

  “Because the guy in 5B found him,” I finally say. “And he was really angry.”

  My fists clench at the thought of that obnoxious note.

  “So what? He’s always angry.”

  “Yes, but he might…” I chew on my lower lip. “If he finds Edgar again in his apartment, he might hurt him.”

  Henry’s eyes widen. “Hurt Edgar?”

  He looks absolutely horrified, like I told him Mr. Grieder was going to commit genocide. I know he loves Edgar, but it’s just a mouse, for God’s sake.

  “I’m just saying,” I murmur, “it’s better to keep Edgar safe. In here.”

  “Okay, Mom,” Henry agrees, but there’s a glint in his eyes that worries me.

  Chapter 27: Jeremy

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  I’d almost gotten used to the sound of that kid Henry playing with his ball outside my apartment, but this is something different. That was a soft thud. This is a loud “thump.”

  And much more persistent than it’s been in the past. Before, there would be a thud every twenty seconds or so. Now it’s every three or four seconds.

  This is getting ridiculous. First I get a rodent released in my apartment and now this?

  I get off the computer, because getting any work done will be impossible until this sound stops. And I need to get work done. Tomorrow night is my date with Noelle so I can’t get anything done then.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  What the hell is wrong with this kid? I struggle to my feet and go to the door, ready to really let this kid have it. But when I fling open the door, I realize the kid isn’t throwing the ball down to the end of the hall like he usually does. He’s standing right across from my door, the blue ball in his hand.

  No wonder the sound was so loud. He was throwing the ball against my door.

  “Hey!” I snap at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Hmm. Maybe I shouldn’t be cursing in front of a kid. Oh well.

  “I’m playing with my ball,” Henry says. He punctuates his statement by throwing the ball, which whizzes past my shoulder and hits the wall next to me.

  I grit my teeth. “I’m calling the super.”

  “There’s nothing he can do.” Henry catches the ball as it comes back to hi
m. “And if you hurt Edgar, I’m going to come here every single day and play for two hours.”

  “Who’s Edgar?”

  The kid gives me a steely look. “My mouse.”

  Oh. Is that what this shit is about? “Listen, you’re the one who let your pet get loose. I didn’t hurt him.”

  “My mom said you would next time.”

  I frown at him. “Well, keep him in his cage and we won’t have a problem, will we?”

  Henry doesn’t like this answer. He narrows his eyes at me, and before I know what’s happening, he’s hurled his blue ball right at my head.

  My reflexes are shit these days. That is, I get the impulse to move, but my body can’t keep up anymore. But by some miracle, I manage to duck the ball that would have almost definitely given me a black eye. It whizzes by my head and flies into my apartment. I don’t know where it lands, but I hear a crash behind me.

  The boy’s eyes widen. I think even he realizes he’s gone too far.

  “Whatever shattered in my apartment,” I say, “you’re going to pay for it.”

  His small, round face blanches. “Can I have my ball back?” he asks.

  Is he kidding me? I slam the door in his face, too angry to even acknowledge him. I don’t know what broke, but it better not be anything related to my computer. If it was, that family is going to get a hell of a lot more than a strongly-worded letter.

  Chapter 28: Noelle

  I’ve laid out about fifty percent of my wardrobe in anticipation of my date tomorrow.

  It’s pathetic. I know it.

  The worst part is I don’t like anything I’ve laid out. I can’t afford new clothes these days, and everything I’ve gotten has been worn to death. I tried on a black dress I used to think I looked really hot in, but now when I stared at myself in the mirror, my legs looked chunky. And then I thought maybe I should go more casual and wear jeans, given it’s freezing out. Except what if he dresses up and I’m wearing freaking jeans?

  God, dating is such a mindfuck.

  Maybe I should text him and ask him what to wear. But that would be pathetic, wouldn’t it? I’m supposed to let him think I have so much exciting stuff going on in my life, I haven’t given the slightest thought to our date. And whatever I wear is just something I pulled out of my closet five minutes earlier.

  Yeah, right.

  And don’t even get me started on shoes. How come I have so many shoes I don’t even like? There’s a massive pile of them on the floor of my closet.

  Before I can start sifting through my shoes, I hear my phone buzz on the nightstand. I look over at the screen, and my heart leaps when I see a text from Jeremy:

  On a scale of 1 to 10, how fancy should I dress tomorrow?

  My breath catches in my throat. While I’m staring into my closet, he’s staring into his closet. Wow. That’s almost as romantic as both of us simultaneously staring at the same star in the sky.

  I grab my phone and text back: 4.7.

  His reply comes almost instantly: It would be so much easier if someone else could just tell me what to wear.

  My fingers fly across the touchpad: Wear the shirt I helped you pick out at Target. With that green tie.

  You got it.

  I’m trying to think of something else witty to write to Jeremy when I hear the front door to the apartment slam shut. Henry must be back. He told me he was going to go play with his ball in the hallway, which I didn’t think was a great idea. Old Mr. Grinch is already angry enough at us—don’t need to provoke him more. I made him swear to be quiet, and for the love of God, stay away from apartment 5B.

  I venture out in the living room, where my son is flopped down on the sofa, a pillow over his head. What now?

  “Hen?” I say. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  He doesn’t answer me.

  I creep around the couch and sit next to him. I have to pry the pillow off his face, and when I do, I see his cheeks are streaked with tears.

  Henry almost never cries anymore. When he was three or four, everything used to make him cry. Couldn’t get ice cream when we were passing by Baskin Robbins? Tears. Missed five minutes of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on TV? Tears. Another kid at school won’t share crayons? Hysterical tears.

  But in the last couple of years, Henry cries less and less. There are times when he’s upset, and I can tell he’s swallowing down his tears. I heard Greg making a casual comment to him about how “boys don’t cry,” and Henry took it to heart. I suppose it’s part of getting older, but it breaks my heart to watch him stifling his emotions that way. Then again, Greg is right that if he cried at school, the other kids would make fun of him.

  So Henry must be truly devastated right now. His shoulders shake with silent sobs as he desperately tries not to let his tears get the better of him. I lean forward and wrap my arms around his skinny shoulders, and he loses the battle. His loud sobs break my heart.

  “What happened, sweetie? Tell me.”

  “Mr. Grinch,” he gulps between sobs. “He…”

  My jaw tightens. I don’t care if Mr. Grinch is old and lonely—if he laid one finger on my child, I will break his wrinkled face. “What did he do to you, Henry?”

  “He took my ball!” Henry bursts out. “And he won’t give it back!”

  I am slightly ashamed to admit my first thought is glee, that the stupid ball is actually gone. That ball will never break another item in my apartment. My dishes are now safe. My picture frames are safe. My television is safe.

  But at the same time, what the hell? That old guy took my son’s ball? And won’t give it back? Who does that? Who the hell does this guy think he is?

  “Don’t worry,” I say to Henry. “I’m going to get it back for you.”

  I really don’t want to. But it’s the principle of the thing.

  “Are you going to go over there?” he asks.

  I hesitate. Admittedly, the idea of going over to confront the guy in person does not appeal to me. Maybe the guy is demented and will start hitting me with his cane? Who knows?

  I have a better idea. I’m going to write him an obnoxious letter and stick it on his door, the same way he did to me.

  I go back into the bedroom and find my phone where I left it on the nightstand. There are two more messages from Jeremy waiting for me:

  Anyway, I promise to be dressed respectably tomorrow.

  And then:

  Really looking forward to it.

  I snatch up my phone from the nightstand and quickly type back: Me too. Sorry, got called away for some drama with our neighbors.

  I watch the phone and see those three little dots, indicating he’s typing a message. After a few moments, his message pops up on the screen: Tell me about it. Can’t be worse than my neighbors.

  Ha. I’m not so sure about that. You’ll have to tell me all about it tomorrow.

  That would be great. I don’t know what to do about these people. They’re driving me nuts.

  Hmm. I guess having horrible neighbors is part of the Manhattan experience. We were lucky at our last place, but I had friends tell me their kids had to tiptoe around their apartment because the downstairs neighbors kept complaining.

  I have a bad feeling my letter to Mr. Grinch is only going to escalate the situation further. But at this point, I’m looking forward to it.

  Bring it, Grinch.

  Chapter 29: Jeremy

  Dear neighbor,

  This evening, you confiscated my son’s ball. Since he was playing with this ball in a common area (the hallway), you had no right to take it away from him. I consider this theft, and I’m certain the building management would agree. I expect the prompt return of my son’s ball as well as an apology for your behavior.

  Sincerely,

  Apartment 5H

  I found the note taped to my door this morning. Presumably, it’s from Henry’s mother. She typed the damn thing, which I’m assuming was a response to the typed letter I left on her door. Of course, I’m sure she doesn�
��t realize I can’t write a letter anymore by hand. I used to be right-handed, so I can scribble some things with my left hand, but nothing legible. My writing looks like a preschooler did it.

  Anyway, she’s out of her mind if she thinks I’m giving that fucking ball back. If she wants it so bad, she can come get it. And while she’s at it, she can pay for the glass the ball shattered when it flew into my apartment. I had to call Luis to come help me clean it up because it was everywhere.

  But I can’t deal with any of this now. Because I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.

  I’m waiting at the bus stop, because Dr. DaSilva’s office is very accessible by public transportation. He’s a stroke doctor I’ve been seeing for the last six years, and he does the Botox injections to my right arm to loosen the muscles. That’s why I’m going to see him—because I’m hoping to get the injections earlier than usual.

  It’s not about Noelle. Even if he did the injections today, they wouldn’t take effect by our date tonight. But my arm is getting really bad. Even in the last week, getting dressed has become incredibly difficult. I can’t even begin to lace my arm through my coat anymore—it’s too tight to even attempt it. This arm is driving me nuts.

  By the time the bus comes, a crowd of six or seven people are waiting. When Dr. DaSilva’s secretary told me there was a Saturday early afternoon appointment that opened up, I jumped at it, but now I wish I had waited for a weekday mid-morning appointment. I don’t want to deal with a crowded bus—and I can see before even getting inside that’s what I’ll be dealing with. It’s the holidays—everyone is shopping.

  Damn. Should have called for a taxi. That’s what I get for trying to save a buck.

  I let everyone else board the bus ahead of me. When the driver sees my forearm crutch, he lowers the steps further so I can get on. I miss how easy it used to be to hop on and off a bus. That first step on is always a bitch, no matter how much they lower it. Stairs are always a bitch, in general.