Mouse in the Brushes

All that was left of the pastry brushes were a few wooden handles badly bitten. All the brush hairs lay in a random pattern on the floor and in the storage drawer and some had blown out the window. Bettina is the one who found the droppings. She scooped up the little black pellets with a spatula and let them slide into a tiny burlap pouch. She used burlap pouches instead of zip-lock bags. There was not one piece of plastic in the whole “kitchen.”

When I came into work she had already cornered the mouse. A very small brown one, trapped in a corner near the icebox and frozen still in that way animals freeze to be less noticed. Bettina was frozen too and keep her stare close on him.

“Franny, get me the marble box.” The marble box sat on the counter near the sink. Sometimes we soaked weeds in there. Sometimes we filled it with nut shells. I picked it up (it weighs a ton) and brought it to her.

“Put him in it,” she said pointing to the minuscule furry beast.

“How?”

“Just pick him up and put him in.”

I was about to say no, I can’t do that. Actually touch him. A possibly slimy rodent with probably pointy teeth and angry and scared of me too. But then I couldn’t get the words out. Bettina never left any room in the place for words like that. You just had to do what she wanted. So, totally unlike myself, I took step after step toward the little creature. As I got closer I almost felt sorry for him. I almost started to like him. I got right up to him, the hard toe of my black clog almost touching him. He still didn’t move.

I picked him up by the tail. He didn’t squirm. I walked him over to the marble box I had set on the table near Bettina, and I put him in.

He didn’t jump out. He just stayed in there.

Bettina put the lid on. “Good,” she said, and put the box in the cupboard.