Wanda Ernstberger

Mouse

She scanned the terrain: nothing by the tool shed, nothing in the garden, nothing by the Chevy. Past the fence, she marched down the road, sandals grinding gravel, dust dry at the back of her throat, gritty between her teeth. Where the land met the sky, heat rose in convection waves, making her sundress stick to her arms and thighs. Off the road, she trudged through knee-high grass towards the river. In the distance, a crow called, answered by another. Rounding a hill, Lydia spotted him.

Daniel came running, shorts sticking to his legs, bangs sticking to his forehead, fingers wrapping around hers, wet and clammy. Tugging her arm, he begged her to follow. He led her to a hill, to a hole burrowed in the earth. There, a mouse laid on its side, its breathing ragged, its leg twisted, broken.

“Mommy, help it.” Daniel’s dark eyes filled with tears, as they did far too often.

Lydia’s breath came hot at the back of her throat. This was his grandmother’s doing. Since he was a baby, Daniel followed her around the house, cleaning the floors, washing the dishes, feeding the dogs, preferring his sister’s dolls to his train sets.

Lydia framed the image in her mind’s eye: Daniel at twenty, standing a head taller than his father, wearing a hockey jersey, sometimes for the Montreal Canadiens, sometimes for the Edmonton Oilers. His eyes shone with strength and pride, ready to tackle any challenge, to defeat any opponent, to overcome any obstacle.

The picture juxtaposed with six-year-old Daniel standing there crying, crying over a mouse.

Lydia set her mouth into a hard, thin line. Here it would end. No more weakness. She grasped his hand and led him away, “Leave it.” She ordered.

He gasped, “B-but it’ll die!”

“This is the way of life, Daniel. The strong live and the weak die. Now leave it.”

She led him away. He turned to look over his shoulder. She struck him on the ear, “Don’t look back!”

Daniel stiffened, turned and marched behind her all the way home.

****

Lydia scanned the hospital room: nothing on the walls, nothing on the side tables, no one in the chairs. The stench of antiseptic decay pressed on her face like a pillow. She had fallen days before, her seventy-year-old bones shattering like ice on impact. Pain shivered from her hip down her leg, icy needles pricking into her thigh, her calf, her toes. She lay there, unable to move, waiting for the only one left.

Daniel never became a hockey player, but he was an executive in an insurance firm. He owned a five-bedroom house in an exclusive neighborhood, although after two divorces and no children, he was the only one living there.

Lydia called him the day of the accident, but he wasn’t home. The next day, the hospital contacted his secretary. The third day, she left a message on his voicemail. But, Daniel didn’t call, and he didn’t come.

In ten minutes, visiting hours would end. Once again, Lydia’s vision turned to the doorway.

In the distance, she saw him, six-year-old Daniel, dark eyes filled with sympathy. Then, those eyes became hard and cold as he turned and marched away into the horizon.