Young Fredle - Louise Yates [68]
The cupboard door was open and there was sunlight in the kitchen, some of which brightened the space under the sink, where Fredle hid himself between a tall green box and a round white container, both stinking of soap. Fredle heard Mister and Missus talking. He didn’t hear the dogs.
“I’m worried,” Missus said.
“I am, too,” Mister answered.
“But I’m really worried now. She’s sleeping but I gave her Tylenol, so that’s why.”
“If her temperature goes up again, or goes above a hundred and two, we’ll swing into action. What do you say to that? I’ll work in the barn today, or maybe in the garden. I’ll keep close by.”
“I’m way behind on the weeding.”
“You’re worried, it’s understandable; it keeps you busy, having a baby, the baby being sick,” Mister said. “Sadie? Angus? Let’s go down to the barn and give our ladies some peace and quiet.”
For some reason, overhearing this conversation and the sounds of the two dogs getting up, their nails clicking on the floor, their steps following Mister’s steps away, and the snap of the door, closing, made Fredle feel better. Less uneasy. He went back up to his nest and fell asleep.
20
In the End
That night, something happened in the kitchen that had never happened before, not in Father’s memory or Grandfather’s, either. As the mice foraged, scattered into the shadowy corners of the kitchen, light broke out, all around them, a light so bright that for a few seconds nobody could see anything.
Under the table and behind the stove or refrigerator, mice froze, and two unfortunate mice froze where they were in the wide, empty space between the stove and the table, between pantry and refrigerator.
The cat pounced.
Mister stood by the counter and paid no attention to cat or mouse. He started talking to someone, but not Angus, although Angus stood at his side and, at the sound of Mister’s low, hurried words, looked up into his face. Then Missus rushed in, carrying the baby, who was fussing unhappily but rather quietly, as if she didn’t have the energy to really cry.
“The hospital’s expecting us,” Mister said. “Let’s go, Angus. Sadie? Where is that dog?”
“She’s gone to ground, I expect. It’s what she does when there’s trouble, or thunder. Under our bed or in the baby’s closet. Should I—”
“She’ll be all right. I just thought they’d be better off outside. We don’t know how long we’ll be.”
“No, we don’t. Do we.”
“It’ll be fine, I hope.”
“Babies run high temperatures all the time. I do know that.”
Then Mister and Missus, the baby, and Angus left the room and the door closed behind them. But the light stayed on.
After many long moments, the mice moved, scurrying to get safely back to their entryways—the pantry door, the hole behind the stove—foraging forgotten in their fear and their hope to be safe. The cat pounced again, and after that there was only silence.
When the light had burst out, Fredle had been at the far end of the kitchen, chasing a pea around one of the table legs. He froze, but not from fear or for safety. It was the sight of colors that stopped him in his tracks. He had already forgotten how many colors there were, when there was light, and he looked around at the brown of the table leg, the black and white of the floor, and an orange chunk of carrot that had rolled up against the wall. He had already swallowed the pea, so he couldn’t enjoy its greenness. When the humans and the dog had left the room, he’d chosen not to join the run back to the pantry door. He listened for the cat, and watched for him, and hoped that Grandfather, who was so slow now, had as usual finished his foraging early and been at the