he’d never lied. Not until last night.
Reggie pulled on a pair of maroon cords and her favorite gray hoodie as she thought through a plan of attack. With Dad gone for the day and just her and Henry in the house, maybe she could get through to him. She’d make Henry’s favorite breakfast, chocolate-chip waffles, and then they could get down to it and really talk. Tomorrow was their first Christmas without Mom, and Reggie knew that was at the core of all this. How couldn’t it be?
Reggie headed for the bathroom to pee and wash her face, but stopped in the hallway. It was still and cold. Something felt different.
She walked toward Henry’s room. The door was open, and she realized why the silence bothered her; there was no incessant scritching of tiny claws on glass, no high-pitched twittering or rusty cheeps from that obnoxious spinning wheel. Dawn to late morning was General Squeak’s most active time, when he would run and skitter and scratch about until he curled up and fell asleep around noon. But not this morning.
Reggie pushed the door open and peeked in. Henry was still asleep, his brown curls spread across his pillow. He had a heavy wool blanket over his thick down comforter, even though Dad had cranked up the heat that morning. Henry had to be sweltering, but his covers rose and fell in perfect calm.
The floor of the hamster cage was littered with pine shavings and gnawed corncobs. Clear plastic tubes of various colors and widths sprawled into terrarium compartments that each housed some silly piece of rodent furniture: a truck, a lounge chair, and a play tunnel.
Reggie tiptoed to the cage and looked for General Squeak, but the hamster was nowhere to be found. The wheel on the bottom level was on its side, and the small water dish was knocked over. The door latch was unlocked.
Henry occasionally left the cage open by mistake, and his inquisitive pet had escaped a few times before. Its favorite destination was the bathroom at the end of the hall, and once there it took whatever delight hamsters take in chewing on empty toilet paper rolls, snotty tissues, and used dental floss. The last time Reggie found the fugitive hamster, it had squirmed into the bathroom cabinet and gnawed through a box of her tampons.
She crept back out of Henry’s room and headed for the bathroom, half expecting to find it up on the sink, where it would have left a lovely pile of hamster turds on Dad’s shaving kit.
No such bad luck; the bathroom was vacant. But the toilet gurgled and choked at her.
“Damn it, I thought Dad was going to fix this,” Reggie muttered. She jiggled the handle and flushed. The water level swelled. Up and up it swirled, threatening to rise above the porcelain rim.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She grabbed the plunger and shoved it in. “Merry Christmas Eve, Reggie!”
The drain opened and sucked in a huge glop of water. The toilet chugged a couple of times but then stopped, the returning water unable to rise more than a few inches above the hole. Reggie cursed silently as the shallow water rippled. Then a small, leathery strip slid into view beneath the water’s surface. At first Reggie mistook it for a clump of hair. She looked closer and slapped her hand over her mouth.
A tail.
Reggie found rubber gloves under the sink and snapped them on. Now she could see that a hind leg had emerged from the hole.
“Oh, no . . .”
She plunged her hand in and grabbed the hamster’s slimy leg. Reggie felt the tiniest crack of bone within the already mangled limb. She pulled. Ribs poked through the skin like broken toothpicks.
The hamster was practically shapeless, little more than a drenched pile of hair and flesh. Reggie stood and stroked the hamster’s fur.
For two years she had watched Henry nurture the annoying ball of squeaks and peeps, had watched it roll across the living room floor in its stupid plastic ball, had come to see the dumb thing whenever it climbed inside a plastic
Reggie pulled on a pair of maroon cords and her favorite gray hoodie as she thought through a plan of attack. With Dad gone for the day and just her and Henry in the house, maybe she could get through to him. She’d make Henry’s favorite breakfast, chocolate-chip waffles, and then they could get down to it and really talk. Tomorrow was their first Christmas without Mom, and Reggie knew that was at the core of all this. How couldn’t it be?
Reggie headed for the bathroom to pee and wash her face, but stopped in the hallway. It was still and cold. Something felt different.
She walked toward Henry’s room. The door was open, and she realized why the silence bothered her; there was no incessant scritching of tiny claws on glass, no high-pitched twittering or rusty cheeps from that obnoxious spinning wheel. Dawn to late morning was General Squeak’s most active time, when he would run and skitter and scratch about until he curled up and fell asleep around noon. But not this morning.
Reggie pushed the door open and peeked in. Henry was still asleep, his brown curls spread across his pillow. He had a heavy wool blanket over his thick down comforter, even though Dad had cranked up the heat that morning. Henry had to be sweltering, but his covers rose and fell in perfect calm.
The floor of the hamster cage was littered with pine shavings and gnawed corncobs. Clear plastic tubes of various colors and widths sprawled into terrarium compartments that each housed some silly piece of rodent furniture: a truck, a lounge chair, and a play tunnel.
Reggie tiptoed to the cage and looked for General Squeak, but the hamster was nowhere to be found. The wheel on the bottom level was on its side, and the small water dish was knocked over. The door latch was unlocked.
Henry occasionally left the cage open by mistake, and his inquisitive pet had escaped a few times before. Its favorite destination was the bathroom at the end of the hall, and once there it took whatever delight hamsters take in chewing on empty toilet paper rolls, snotty tissues, and used dental floss. The last time Reggie found the fugitive hamster, it had squirmed into the bathroom cabinet and gnawed through a box of her tampons.
She crept back out of Henry’s room and headed for the bathroom, half expecting to find it up on the sink, where it would have left a lovely pile of hamster turds on Dad’s shaving kit.
No such bad luck; the bathroom was vacant. But the toilet gurgled and choked at her.
“Damn it, I thought Dad was going to fix this,” Reggie muttered. She jiggled the handle and flushed. The water level swelled. Up and up it swirled, threatening to rise above the porcelain rim.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She grabbed the plunger and shoved it in. “Merry Christmas Eve, Reggie!”
The drain opened and sucked in a huge glop of water. The toilet chugged a couple of times but then stopped, the returning water unable to rise more than a few inches above the hole. Reggie cursed silently as the shallow water rippled. Then a small, leathery strip slid into view beneath the water’s surface. At first Reggie mistook it for a clump of hair. She looked closer and slapped her hand over her mouth.
A tail.
Reggie found rubber gloves under the sink and snapped them on. Now she could see that a hind leg had emerged from the hole.
“Oh, no . . .”
She plunged her hand in and grabbed the hamster’s slimy leg. Reggie felt the tiniest crack of bone within the already mangled limb. She pulled. Ribs poked through the skin like broken toothpicks.
The hamster was practically shapeless, little more than a drenched pile of hair and flesh. Reggie stood and stroked the hamster’s fur.
For two years she had watched Henry nurture the annoying ball of squeaks and peeps, had watched it roll across the living room floor in its stupid plastic ball, had come to see the dumb thing whenever it climbed inside a plastic
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