The Christmas Rat

by Avi

  Finally there were decorations, old ones from my grandparents’ trees. Glass ornaments and such. The only one bad moment came when my mother discovered that her treetop angel had been chewed. I mean, she was totally upset. See, she had kept that angel since she was a little girl. “Oh, Eric,” she cried, teary, “I wanted to give it to your children. It was kind of my guardian angel.”

  “How come you kept it packed away?” I asked.

  My question seemed to surprise her. “It’s a Christmas angel,” she replied as if that answered it.

  “We’ll find another,” my father told her.

  She said, “It won’t be the same.”

  “Then we’ll get this one fixed,” he offered. “I suppose even angels need attention from time to time.” Once again, I wanted to tell them about the rat but I didn’t.

  Standing on tiptoes, my mother put her partly chewed angel on the treetop. She gave a sad smile. “Maybe we should get a better one. Start a new tradition.”

  As we always did after we decorated, we put out a few presents, the ones that came from relatives. There were two from Aunt Thelma who lived in Texas, one from Uncle Willie in Massachusetts. They always sent the same things. T-shirts from Aunt Thelma that bragged DON’T MESS WITH TEXAS. From Uncle Willie, a box of chocolates shaped like Christmas wreaths. Willie was my father’s brother, and of course he knew my dad had a candy store. It was Uncle Willie’s idea of a joke, but the present had always annoyed my dad. My mother would say every year, “Now Lloyd, it’s Christmastime. Be loving.” And my dad would shrug. Always happened just that way, for as long as I could remember.

  Then, to make it all complete, we hung my stocking. It was made of red felt and had faint green sparkles on it spelling out “Merry Christmas.” I had hung that stocking since I was five years old. I knew I was a little big for that sort of thing, but I liked it. So did my folks.

  My mother made herb tea for us and served chocolate-chip cookies. Then we watched the news and got a lot of stupid talk about the cold snap. They kept asking the same question: “How low will the temperature go?”

  “It’s keeping everyone inside,” my father said, thinking, I guessed, about his store. “Not good for sales. They’ll be down this season.”

  “People have to buy candy,” my mother replied encouragingly. “It’s Christmas, after all,” she added. “Can’t have Christmas without sweetness.”

  “It’s bitter outside,” my father said, making a face. “Not a creature is stirring.”

  That got me feeling very tired. I announced I was going to bed.

  First my mother came in to kiss me good-night, then my father.

  “Dad,” I called out just as he was about to leave the room, “what do you think about rats?”

  He turned back. “I suppose I don’t like them much. But I’ve been told they make great pets. What makes you ask?”

  “Just thinking.”

  He sat on the end of my bed. “Here it’s almost Christmas and you’re thinking about rats. Some TV movie you saw?”

  “A story I read.”

  He smiled. “Hey, reading can get the mind going. Good-night, son.”

  “ ’Night, Dad.”

  I had wanted to read. Anything but think about rats. I couldn’t. According to Anje I was supposed to go into the basement that night and search around.

  I turned off my bedside lamp. The hall light was still on and my door was partially open so it wasn’t completely dark.

  As I lay there I thought again about who was more creepy: the rat or Anje the exterminator? The question made me toss and turn. It was as if I knew the answer, but didn’t want to admit it.

  “The exterminator,” I finally said out loud. The moment I spoke the words, I had a flood of bad feelings about Anje: How uncomfortable he made me. All that talk of killing. His hard eyes. Long, white-blond hair. The skull-with-wings on his hat. His poison boxes. His blunt, bossy way of talking. Acting like he was the judge of the whole world. Sure, the rat was creepy. He, I decided, was worse.

  Just allowing myself these thoughts made me feel better. Like a window had been opened, the poison gone.

  I shifted under my covers, closed my eyes and waited for sleep. It didn’t come. The relief I’d felt lasted only moments. I got nervous all over again. See, I started thinking—what would Anje say when he knew I was bothered more by him than the rat? I just knew he would know. Would he think of me as a traitor to humans? Would he turn on me? Would the rat be killed anyway?

  I rolled over in bed, searching for a more comfortable position. The truth was, I didn’t want the rat to be killed. I mean, the rat wasn’t bothering me. Just because Anje said he should be killed didn’t mean . . . anything.

  There it was, why kill anything? And, you know, it was Christmastime.

  No way, I told myself. I wouldn’t do it.

  Except, the next question was, should I call Anje and tell him what I’d decided?

  No—he’d know. I knew he would. And it was his reaction I dreaded.

  I didn’t want to think about any of that. Instead, I turned on my lamp and read until I grew drowsy. Christmas, I reminded myself, was only three days away. I wished it would hurry. I started to hum Silent Night. Somewhere in the middle of it I fell asleep.

  THREE DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS

  -1-

  Tuesday morning, I woke up late. My parents had already gone to work. On the kitchen table I found a note:

  Eric,

  Didn’t want to wake you. You looked so peaceful! Try to do something today. Call a friend. See a movie! The 14th Street Arcade? Here’s ten bucks to help things along. If you go somewhere, give one of us a call so we’ll know where you are.

  Love, Dad

  P.S. Still very cold! Bundle up well!

  The bottom part was in my mother’s handwriting.

  As I ate breakfast I read the note over. Pushing my food aside—I didn’t eat much—I thought about what movie I wanted to see. There was a place on 4th Avenue that showed eight different ones. I probably could find something I wanted to see.

  Had I ever gone to a movie alone? I didn’t think so. I wondered if Cory was over the flu. Though I doubted it, I decided it was worth a call.

  I showered, got dressed, and was about to make my call when the doorbell rang.

  From inside I shouted, “Who is it?”

  “Eden trap.”

  “What?”

  “Eden trap. The rat. It’s me, Anje. You forget?”

  “Oh.” My heart sank. I had put the rat business out of my mind. Now it was back. He was back. Along with all my thoughts from the night before, only worse. I felt I had to open the door.

  There he was, looking as big as ever.

  “Hey, kid, how you doing?”

  He didn’t exactly push past me. But then again I didn’t invite him. He just came in and went right to the living room.

  I followed.

  When I caught up to him he was standing there, staring at the tree.

  “Nice tree,” he said. He shifted his gaze slightly. “And you’ve put a stocking up. Got a little brother?”

  I grinned sheepishly. “It’s mine.”

  “Hey, it’s Christmas.”

  “I guess.”

  Suddenly, he stopped. “What’s that on top?”

  “An angel.”

  “It looks . . . chewed.”

  “It was the rat. Remember, when I found him he was eating it. I showed you.”

  “Guess you did,” Anje said. Then he turned to face me. “How’d it go last night?” he asked.

  “Last night?”

  “What you do, kid, sleep in? Or did you forget you were supposed to get out into the field last night, scouting around. Didn’t you go?”

  “Ah . . . yeah,” I said, wondering why I lied.

  His eyes hardened. “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what did you see?”

  “The . . . uh . . . rat.”

  “Find wh
ere he’s hiding out?”

  “Mr.—”

  “Anje. Just Anje.”

  “Anje . . . I was thinking.”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “I . . . ah . . . don’t think I want to do this.”

  A moment of silence. “Don’t want to what?”

  “Kill the rat.”

  He didn’t say anything. He just stared at me.

  I said, “Is that . . . okay?”

  “Wait a minute,” he replied. “You saying you don’t want that rat dead?” There was a snarl in his voice.

  “No, I’m just saying . . . well . . .” I stared at my feet. “I don’t want to do it.”

  “You did yesterday, dude.”

  “Well, I . . . just . . . don’t want to . . . now.”

  “People,” he murmured. Then he took a deep breath and said, “Okay. But just so you understand, I intend to do the job. It’s who I am. Kind of a calling, if you know what I mean. I could always use some help, but hey, nobody’s perfect. Only don’t interfere. You hear me?”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay.”

  Without another word, or even looking back at me, he went right to our hall, walked out, and slammed the door behind him.

  Feeling sort of weak, as if I had done something wrong, I sat down. Then I reminded myself that it was Anje who was strange. I sighed, wishing the whole thing would just go away.

  I called Cory. He no longer had a fever—that’s what his sister said—but he was still in bed. We could probably get together after Christmas. “Cory would really like that,” she said. “Merry Christmas, Eric.”

  By this time I was hating Merry Christmas.

  In the living room I turned on the TV just in time to get an extra weather report. It was getting colder. A break was not expected until Christmas Day. I felt trapped. Like a rat.

  -2-

  I lay on the couch and watched some cartoons. When they became too boring, I picked up a book. Reading wasn’t any better. I was too restless to concentrate.

  I went into my parents’ room and pulled out my main Christmas present from under their bed, the radio-controlled car. I unpacked it carefully, making sure I didn’t break the cardboard box.

  The Rebound 4 × 4 Jet Car was about ten inches long and had these four very large wheels, a red streamlined car body on the top, an equally streamlined blue truck—complete with cargo bay—on the bottom. There was also a control box with double toggle controls and a wire antenna. Having used Pete’s model—the Turbo—lots of times, I knew how to work this one.

  I slipped some batteries in—a red light came on to show they were good—set it on the ground, clicked the ON switch, and shifted the two toggles. Right off, the car zipped around the room, turning, flipping, spinning, shifting from one direction to another. Cool. It cheered me up.

  Then I got bothered. After all, it was supposed to be my parents’ Christmas gift to me. I repacked it carefully and put it back under the bed just the way it had been.

  At eleven o’clock, I decided I would take the money Dad had given me and go to the arcade. If I played the games I knew well—like Rock Team Road Racer—I could string out the ten bucks for at least a couple of hours. I mean, it was something to do. I called my father’s store and left him a message about where I was going.

  Dressed for the cold, I got on the elevator and pushed the LOBBY button. The thing made its regular going-down noises. But suddenly I had to see what was going on down in the basement. Impulsively, I pushed the BASEMENT button.

  Since I had pushed the LOBBY button first, it stopped there. A guy was about to get on, but when I said, “I’m going down,” he quickly said, “I’ll wait,” and backed out. It was as if the basement was a place to avoid. Or maybe it was me.

  Though the lights were on, the place seemed empty. But as I walked around, I saw small white paper cups set against the walls. In each cup there were brown pellets. I picked up one of the cups to take a closer look. Sniffed it, too. It had a bitter smell. I was pretty sure it was poison, which meant Anje had been there. I put the cup down and hurried back to the elevator.

  I kept thinking about Anje. His bright eyes, pale face, long blond hair. He reminded me of someone: I couldn’t figure out who. But why did the guy care so much about killing one rat? The animal was probably only coming in from the cold. As soon as the freeze was over, I was sure the rat would go away.

  I sort of guessed that none of that mattered to Anje. The guy wanted the rat dead. Hadn’t he said he liked killing? The arcade, I reminded myself. Get the rat stuff out of your mind!

  I went outside. Man, it was frigid.

  I had gone about two blocks in the direction of the arcade when I came to a sudden stop. I was so upset I was almost crying. And I knew why. It was the whole exterminator-rat thing. The thought of Anje coming into our apartment building—probably using his own keys—to kill that rat really got to me.

  Standing there on the freezing street I decided it wasn’t just that I didn’t like Anje, I didn’t want that rat killed. After all, it was Christmas. . . . People were supposed to be happy, full of life and love. Know what I mean? But this . . . all of sudden I had to do something.

  I wheeled around and, walking fast, I went back to the basement. I gathered up all the cups and dumped them—along with the poison pellets—into one of those ash cans.

  Only then did I go to the arcade. I loved that place. Bright, flashing lights. Sounds of explosions, shots, crashes. Like being inside a cartoon action show. I was feeling so good I stretched out my ten bucks for two and half hours of play. Awesome! Even better, in Time Crisis, I came in with one of highest scores, second only to Angel One.

  A little after four that afternoon, I was home watching television, stretched out on the couch munching chips or something, when the phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Eric?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Anje. The exterminator. Hey, bud, you mess around with those poison cups?”

  I sat up fast. “Well . . .”

  “Did you?”

  “What do you . . . mean?”

  “I put down some poison cups in your basement. The Eden Apartments. Do I have that right? Did you touch them?”

  “Well . . . yeah.”

  He didn’t say anything. The silence went on for such a long time I wasn’t sure he was still there.

  But he was.

  “Listen up, dude,” he said, his voice hard. “Listen up good. I’ve got a job to do and I intend to do it. That rat is going to die. Don’t interfere. Don’t get in the way. Don’t mess with me. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going down into the basement. I want you there.”

  I swallowed hard. “Why?”

  “Be there!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Anje was waiting for me when I stepped out of the elevator.

  He glared at me. His mustache made him look so fierce. It caught the light. “I just like to look a traitor in the eye,” he said. “Now get out of here and let me do my work,” he snapped. “And dude . . .”

  I turned.

  “Just so’s you don’t misunderstand, the only thing I hate more than rats is traitors.”

  I turned away.

  “And another thing,” he called.

  I looked back.

  “You made a deal.”

  “I did?”

  “Think about it.”

  I retreated into the elevator. As the door slid shut, I could feel Anje’s eyes on me. Man, I felt like crying. I was ashamed of myself. Only I was scared, too. And angry. All at once. I also felt I had to do something. But I didn’t know what.

  With a jab of my finger I punched the LOBBY button. When I got there I went to check the mailbox. We had some mail, but the only keys I had in my pocket were for the apartment and the storage bay
. There was nothing I could do about it. But instead of going back up, I waited where I was.

  When I heard the elevator open, and boots clumping away, I peeked around the corner. It was the exterminator leaving the building.

  Soon as he was gone, I went back to the basement. Just as I had guessed, there were new cups. I scooped them up—along with the new poison pellets—and dumped them all into an ash can.

  I was still angry, still scared, and pretty glad when I got back to our apartment. I double-bolted the door shut. But I had made up my mind. I didn’t care what happened: I wasn’t going to let that rat be killed.

  -3-

  “All this hanging around with nothing to do,” my mother said to me. “I think you’re getting depressed.” She was smiling, trying to be kind. She and I were eating dinner alone because my father had to stay late at his store.

  “Did you get out at all?” she asked.

  “Went to the arcade.”

  “Have fun?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good! Just three more days,” she said, smiling. “Crazy Christmas will be over.”

  “It’s not just that,” I said.

  “Oh, what is it?”

  “It’s . . . there’s no one to hang around with.”

  “No one?”

  I explained the friend situation again.

  “I’m sorry. Do you want to come to work with me tomorrow? You’ll probably be bored there, too. But maybe not. . . .”

  “I’ll be okay,” I insisted. “But I was thinking, maybe I could get a model. Something to work on . . . I have some money.”

  “Happy to help,” she said, patting my hand. “Oh, we got some Christmas cards. From your father’s Aunt Becky, and the Fosters. The church too, I guess, though it wasn’t signed. But it’s not the one they usually send.”

  After dinner I looked at the cards. The one from our church had a picture of the stained-glass window I liked, you know, Mary and the angel. The printed message inside read:

  May the Message of Christmas Be with You!

  At about eight there was a long-distance call from Aunt Thelma. Knowing that my mother would be talking for a long time, I grabbed the flashlight and slipped out of the apartment and went down to the basement.