Of Mouse and Man

Mouse and man regarded each other.

“So, we meet at last,” the grizzled elder said, scratching the grey stubble on his chin. He watched the brown mouse sitting on the edge of the puckered rug. “How long has it been now?” But the old man, leaning slightly forward in his wheelchair, did not expect an answer.

The rodent sat on his haunches and twitched his whiskers, sniffing the air.

“A couple of old bachelors living out the twilight years of their lonely lives.” The old man smiled. “I suspect we’re about the same age,” he said, although he did not know how the ages of mice compared to that of men. “Seems so, anyway. Must have laid at least fifty traps over the years for you. Dodged them all,” he chuckled, “and made off with the cheese, you little bugger.”

The mouse, as if he understood, curled the stub of his tail around his tiny back feet.

“Ah, yes,” the old man recalled. “Except for that first time. Caught your tail, or at least part of it. Guess that taught you something. Probably saved you from the other forty-nine traps, I suppose,” and he chuckled again, then added, “Sorry about that.”

The mouse vigorously scratched behind one ear, sitting near the buckled wrinkle in the carpet.

“Of course, you got your revenge,” and the man shook his head at the patch of uneven rug. “At least you can still walk. I’m stuck in a wheelchair as you can see,” and he grasped the large, rubber wheels.

The mouse smoothed his whiskers, and they twitched seemingly in sympathy.

“Too late for your pity. Anyway, at my age sitting down for most of the day is not so bad.” He looked around and lowered his voice. “But you don’t have to deal with Mrs. Hanford.”

“Henreee? Henry!” Mrs. Hanford called from the kitchen.

“Speak of the devil …”

“There you are,” she frowned coming into the dining room. Her hands rested on her hips, and a checkered dishtowel was slung over her shoulder. There was white flour on her deeply flushed cheeks that gave her a slightly clownish appearance.

The mouse scurried like mouses do. Out of sight.

“What in the Dickens are you doing out of bed? Supper won’t be ready for another couple hours,” and she strode over, grabbed the wheelchair handles and turned him around. Henry searched the floor and the shadowy corners of the room for the mouse. He clucked his tongue and sighed.

“Can’t I just sit here until it’s time to eat? It’s so stuffy in my room, and it’s so sunny here. He pointed to the billowing organza curtains. “Nice spring breeze, too,” and he inhaled deeply for emphasis.

Mrs. Hanford hesitated. Henry took advantage of the pause.

“Besides, I love to smell the delicious scents coming from your kitchen. I can’t enjoy that as much from my room.”

Another slight falter. Then she turned him back around and moved him closer to the window.

“Just don’t be making a habit of it. You must stick to your routine. Doctor’s orders and all that,” she said sternly, but Henry could hear the proud smile in her voice.

“Dictatorial old biddy,” Henry mumbled when she was out of earshot.

From beneath the dining chair, the mouse emerged. With great round eyes he looked up at the old man.

“What was I saying before we were so rudely interrupted?” Henry asked. “Oh yes. Your little ‘get even’ trick,” and he pointed to the bulge in the carpet. “Took quite a tumble, old boy. Broke my damned hip. Bad show that.”

But Mrs. Hanford pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen carrying a tray, and the rodent was off again.

“Nearly forgot your tea,” she cried, setting the tray on the table. She pushed Henry up to it. Without asking, she poured the steaming brew from a Royal Albert teapot into a matching Royal Albert teacup sitting pretty in a Royal Albert saucer. With dainty tongs she plopped two sugar cubes and poured a dribble of milk into the cup. She tucked a starched white napkin into Henry’s collar.

“Don’t fuss so,” Henry complained.

“Crotchety old man,” she said, patting the napkin and turning back to the kitchen. He picked up the one scone also present on the tray and examined it.

“She knows I despise raisins,” he said, talking to the mouse, assuming he must still be nearby.

Henry noticed the stump of a mouse’s tail sticking out from beneath the tablecloth. “Do you think I’m a crotchety old man?” he asked, dropping a large scone crumb onto the Turkish carpet. “What say we call a truce, old chap? You seem up for it.”

The mouse came out of hiding, and creeping cautiously, snatched up the tidbit and nibbled, turning it round and round in his little front feet. He paused, looking up briefly, then went back to his morsel.

“It’s settled, then.” Henry laughed. He carefully lifted the teacup to his lips, blowing on the scalding liquid. Then set the cup back in its red and yellow saucer with a clinking clatter. “By the time this cools it will be supper.”

“Henry!” Mrs. Hanford called from the kitchen. She pushed through the swinging door, and the mouse took his crumb and skittered. “Have you started talking to yourself?” Henry silently chided himself for forgetting to whisper.

“And what if I have?” Henry asked. “Talking to oneself at my age is not unusual. In fact, it’s quite expected.”

“Expected or not, you’ll find yourself whisked off to the looney bin if you make a habit of it.”

“Mercifully, those places don’t serve scones with raisins,” Henry shot back, grimacing.

Mrs. Hanford’s face flushed even redder. She was annoyed at all this deviance from her no-nonsense regimen, and she had had enough. Without a word, she marched to the open window and shut it with a bang. Turning, she picked up the tray of cooling tea and what was left of the raisin scone. She looked at Henry. “I’ll be returning for you, mister. It’s back to bed until I say you can get up! Raisins indeed.”

But in her hurry to put things to right, her slipper caught on the buckled rug – the same buckled spot of rug that had been Henry’s undoing. She fell forward in much the same way Henry had several months ago. The tray became airborne like a tossed Olympic discus, then crashed to the floor, shattering the Royal Albert porcelain and spilling all the tea. The raisin scone rolled lazily under the Queen Anne sofa.

Dazed, lying prone on the carpet and still clutching the sugar tongs, she moaned in pain. “Henry! I think I’ve twisted my ankle!” But Mrs. Hanford opened her eyes in terror. There, two feet away, sat her most feared pest. The creature was turning the dropped scone round and round in its little paws. She opened her mouth to scream, but only one word came out. “Mouse!”