Ragweed

  He took time to feel the rough bark of the massive trees. When he came upon a flower, a lily of the valley, he almost swooned with delight at its strong fragrance and delicate white bells.

  Blinker went on, drawn by one astonishing discovery after another. First it was a damp, wiggling worm. Then a pinecone. A shiny pebble seemed to have captured the light of the moon on its smooth surface. There were signs of humans, too: ash cans, piles of newspaper, benches. It was as if each thing he came upon was the rarest of marvels and he the first to find it. “Truly remarkable,” he kept whispering. “Truly, truly, truly.”

  Only after he had gone on for a long time did Blinker happen to look up: The darkness was fading. In its place was soft, gray light. Wondering, he stared at it. “Goodness,” he sighed, “even the sky changes.” Then he remembered his promise to himself: It was time to return home.

  Regretfully, but with some relief, Blinker turned about, only to realize he had neglected to keep track of his route. He had no idea where he was, much less how to get back home.

  Eyes squinting, tail twitching, he looked around. What had seemed very beautiful moments before had become a bewildering maze.

  He darted off in one direction, certain he had come from that way. The next moment he felt sure it was not from that way, but from this. Trembling with fear, he came to a stop. He was lost.

  “Get a grip on yourself, Blinker,” he murmured and made himself look around in the growing morning light.

  He was on a sidewalk. The buildings—at least compared with houses in his own neighborhood—were not as brightly painted. Some windows were broken. Doors were lopsided. Many more cars went by than in the night, terrifying in their size, noise, and smell.

  As Blinker pondered his difficulty he heard a strange sound. He had not the least idea what this long, high-pitched, drawn-out whistle might be. Still, it was something.

  “I must get back home,” he told himself and crept along, halting every few feet to rise up on his hind legs and look and sniff, hoping that every corner he turned would reveal something familiar. None did, and in his confusion the whistle drew him like a beacon of light.

  CHAPTER 11

  Windshield and Foglight

  SAFELY BEYOND THE RUINS of the Cheese Squeeze Club, Ragweed halted. “Are you all right?” he asked Clutch.

  Clutch shook her head clear, then looked back toward the club. “Oh, mouse, why do those cats hate us so much?” she cried. Tears ran down her cheeks. “Like, what did we ever do to them? Know what I’m saying? They’re so big and powerful. And what can we do? Like, zippo.”

  Ragweed did not know what to say.

  Taking a deep breath, Clutch wiped away tears. “Hey, dude, you were something else. You saved my life. I mean, you were totally awesome.”

  “You saved mine before,” Ragweed said. “So we’re even. Except I don’t think we should stand here, talking. We need to find a safer place. You sure you’re okay?”

  “Hey, I’m cool,” Clutch said. But suddenly she turned to look again at what had been the club. “Hey, like, what about Dipstick and Lugnut? Have you seen them?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Clutch swallowed hard. “What about my guitar?” she asked.

  “You smashed it on Silversides’s nose.”

  “Oh, yeah, right. And my deck?”

  “In Silversides’s mouth.”

  Clutch put her paws over her eyes. “Total yard sale,” she said. “Biffed.”

  Ragweed touched Clutch’s shoulder gently. “Ah . . . dude,” he said tentatively, “you did the best you could.”

  “Yeah, like, maybe,” Clutch replied. Suddenly she grinned. “Hey, was that some kind of killer music or what? Right on the cat’s nose leather.” Just as quickly she became grim again. “Do you think my buds got, like, planted deep?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, mouse, the Cheese Squeeze Club was one cool place. Know what I’m saying? Maybe I should go back and check on my buds.”

  “Clutch,” Ragweed urged, “like, don’t you think we’d be safer somewhere else?”

  “Safe? Yeah, right. We better haul. Follow me.”

  As the two mice scurried along the sidewalk, Ragweed noticed they were not going back the way they had come. “Aren’t we going the wrong way?” he asked.

  “Not really. Like, it might not be safe to go back to my pad right away. Can’t tell. Maybe Silversides knows where it’s at. That’s where she chased you. I mean, to live around here, dude, you have to have street savvy.”

  “Street savvy?”

  “Like, keep your mind to the bind and your feet to the beat. Know what I’m saying?”

  “I think so. Where are we going?”

  “To my old mouse’s place. They’ll let us hang till this blows over. It’s not far.”

  After a two-block run Clutch darted into an alleyway and squirmed under a metal wall whose lower edge was old rubber.

  On the other side of the wall stood a very long and, to Ragweed’s eyes, immense metal box with a long row of dirty windows. The box was perched on flat tires and painted yellow, though the paint was peeling badly. On one side of the box was written “Amperville School District.”

  “What is that?” Ragweed said.

  “Old school bus, dude. Where my parents hang out their tails.”

  Ragweed, who had no idea what a school bus was, decided it was not the moment to ask more questions. Instead, he followed Clutch up into the bus itself.

  At the top of the ramp Clutch paused. “My folks are way cool, mouse. Just be yourself. You’ll do fine.”

  Inside the bus the walls were covered with pictures painted on bits of paper with chewed edges.

  “Oh, my,” Ragweed murmured.

  “Like, my old mouse is an artist,” Clutch said with pride. “Know what I’m saying?” She stopped so Ragweed could admire the work.

  At first Ragweed thought it was the dimness of the bus that made it difficult to see the pictures clearly. Then he realized it was not the light but the art that was obscure. The pictures consisted mainly of swirls of color and curious shapes. He could not begin to tell what they represented, if anything.

  “The old mouse—his name is Windshield, but we call him Windy—is really into cheese,” Clutch explained. “That’s what he paints.”

  “He paints cheese?” Ragweed asked, bewildered.

  “Hey, duh, not the cheese itself. Like, he does portraits of cheese. Know what I’m saying? See, here, that’s his famous Yellow Cheese Descending a Stairway. This one is from his Blue Cheese period. Over there is American Cheese. That blank picture isn’t really blank. It’s a hole from some Swiss cheese. I mean, killer amazing. It takes, like, one wicked mind to think of nothing, don’t you think? I bet you can never guess how Windy does it?”

  “No, I don’t think I could,” Ragweed admitted.

  “Uses his tail. Like, he may be my old mouse,” Clutch said with pride, “but the guy’s an awesome genius.”

  “Does your mother paint too?” Ragweed asked.

  “Foglight?” Clutch said. “Naw, she’s a poet. She’s writing a mouse epic. Calls it Cheese of Grass. Going to be killer sweet. Word wipeout time. Been working on it for weeks. Should be done any sec now. But, hey, dude, let me introduce you to them.”

  They passed down the center of the bus between rows of broken seats. Pictures hung everywhere. Some, Ragweed saw at a glance, were cheese paintings and presumably had been painted by Clutch’s father. But there were other paintings: portraits of mice, landscapes, visions of human nests, streets. There were also twisted objects of all kinds. Ragweed was reminded of the pile of junk in which he had hidden by the railroad.

  “My folks have a lot of artist friends,” Clutch whispered by way of explanation. “They can’t sell what they make, so they swap stuff. Hey, Windy! Foggy! What’s up?” Clutch called.

  At the front of the old bus were two mice. The large one—Ragweed guessed he was Clutch’s father, the
one called Windshield—was quite portly. His scruffy fur was gray-brown like his daughter’s, but so dabbed with color he looked like a spotted creature. All around him was an array of bottle caps, each filled with paint of a different color. The tip of his tail—he was in the middle of painting a picture—was quite green. Ragweed noticed it was the same color as the top of Clutch’s head.

  The other mouse, who was small and wiry, was bending intently over the work she was composing on paper, chewing a writing stick. Though Clutch called a greeting, she seemed not to have heard.

  Not so with Clutch’s father. He looked around. “Clutch!” he rumbled in as low a voice as Ragweed had ever heard. “What a magnificent surprise!” He bounded forward and gave his daughter an enthusiastic nuzzle, which she returned with equal fervor.

  “Hey, Windy,” Clutch said, “this is my new bud, Ragweed. He just blew into town, and like, he already saved my life.”

  “Saved your life?” the fat mouse cried, eyes sparking with interest. “Sir,” he exclaimed, “I should like to shake your paw.” He did so with great vigor and enthusiasm. “It is clear, young mouse, you subscribe to the same philosophy as I do, the world of big gestures! Action! Commitment!” He clung to Ragweed’s paw, continuing to shake it. “I’m delighted to meet you! No, correction! Thrilled to meet you! Welcome to the family,” he went on, all the while pumping Ragweed’s paw.

  “Oh, well, thank you,” Ragweed said mildly.

  “Did you hear, Foggy?” Windshield cried, turning toward his wife. “This delightful young mouse saved our daughter’s life!”

  “That’s nice,” Clutch’s mother said. “Be finished in two secs.” Though she seemed to mean it, she was too intent upon her work to break off.

  Not so Windshield. “Come on over here, you two. Great to see you, Clutch. Love your hair! You know,” he said, suddenly halting and rising up on his hind legs, as if giving a sermon, “when a stranger saves the life of another stranger—it seems to me that we have reached a major turning point. It means mice are beginning to take care of mice.

  “It’s a trend!” he cried with great sweeping motions of one paw. “What has happened will affect other mice. They will affect yet others. The movement will spread and the whole world of mice will change! It’s a revolution!”

  “Windy,” Clutch said, “like, can we get something to eat?”

  “Of course,” Windshield said good-naturedly. “Foggy,” he called to his wife, “care to join us?”

  “Just two secs,” Foglight mumbled again without looking up.

  “My wife,” Windshield explained to Ragweed with pride, “is a wonderful writer. Do you know how you can tell a professional writer from an amateur?”

  “No.”

  “An amateur worries about the work before starting; a professional worries about the work when finished.”

  Windshield led the two young mice under a seat, where food was piled about in random fashion. “Help yourself, my dear friends. Now then, Ragweed, the complete story. No detail is too small. How did you preserve my daughter’s life? I desire to hear it all.”

  “It was at the Cheese Squeeze Club—” Ragweed began.

  “The Cheese Squeeze Club,” Windshield interrupted. “These places where young people congregate are important. When I was young, it was different. We were isolated. Today a whole new feeling has emerged. A sense of belonging. And these clubs mark a turning point! A trend! The world is changing! Revolution is at hand!”

  “Windy,” Clutch interrupted, “do you want to know what happened?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Silversides and Graybar mopped up the club.”

  “Cruel, hateful creatures,” Windshield cried. “Holding down the mice of this town! Repressing us. But our time will come.” He clenched a paw and held it high. “We mice shall rise again!”

  “Like, tell me about it,” Clutch said.

  “Never give up heart,” Windshield proclaimed. “Remember, we’re at a turning point. Notice that a whole new feeling has emerged. A new sense of belonging. A revolution!”

  “Hey, Pops,” Clutch said with affection, “like, you’ve said that already.”

  “I have?” The artist was truly surprised.

  “At least.”

  “Oh, well, repetition is the proof of sincerity. Saying what you mean is important. It’s a turning point. A whole new—”

  “Windy!” Clutch cried, cutting him off.

  Then Ragweed said, “Mr. Windshield, sir, do you think anything can be done about the cats? Like, make them stop hurting you guys?”

  Windshield seemed to deflate. “Well, if you put it that way, no. But, young fellow, the power of art will—” He stopped mid-sentence. “That reminds me,” he said. He rushed out from under the seat, headed for the back of the bus, and resumed painting.

  Ragweed looked to Clutch. “Like, the power of art will what?” he asked her.

  “Beats me,” Clutch said, laughing. “That’s the way the dude always talks. He’s, like, constantly cruising. Dreaming. Except, know what I’m saying, most of his dreams come when he’s awake.”

  “Clutch,” Ragweed said, “really, isn’t there, like, anything to be done about those cats?”

  Clutch sighed. “Hey, dude, I’ll tell it like it is. There are us mice, okay, and then there are those cats. We don’t deserve it, but they hate us. Generally speaking, we lose. Totally. Hey, it’s what’s going down. A constant struggle. And that’s the way it’s going to be.”

  “But,” Ragweed stammered, “that’s an awful way to live.”

  “Hey, dude, you’ve been here what, one day? Two? Right? Me, I’ve spent my whole life looking over both my shoulders for cats. So chill. Know what I’m saying? Keep on living till we die. No other way. It’ll come. And there’s nothing we can do about it. But hey, baby, you live with regrets, you’ll wind up regretting living.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Silversides

  THOUGH SILVERSIDES WAS SATISFIED by the havoc she and Graybar had wreaked on the Cheese Squeeze Club, it left a distinctly bad taste in her mouth. Of course she had bitten down hard on that mouse’s skateboard, the one the golden mouse had rammed into her mouth. That part of the evening had been a painful and humiliating experience.

  Graybar had rescued Silversides by carefully working the board out of her mouth. The vice president of F.E.A.R. thought it all very funny. “Are you telling me you let a mouse stick that board into your mouth and you didn’t bite him in half?” he asked, not bothering to conceal his amusement.

  “I didn’t see it until it was too late,” Silversides tried to explain. “I was trying to get a green-headed mouse.”

  “A green-headed mouse! You should look before you bite,” Graybar suggested with a smirk.

  “Easy for you to say,” Silversides retorted.

  “Who was the mouse who stuck it to you?” Graybar asked.

  “Some golden mouse.”

  “Golden mouse? Not the one you missed grabbing this morning, was it?”

  Silversides frowned. “Yes,” she said.

  “You should have tossed him, when you had the chance, cat,” Graybar said with a laugh. “You better deal with him.”

  Silversides, telling herself that she had to stop working with Graybar, said, “Don’t worry, I will.”

  The mice had all fled, so there was little for the cats to do other than complete their systematic destruction of the club. This they did with grim satisfaction, making sure that the establishment could never be restored.

  “Got any plans for tomorrow?” Graybar asked Silversides before they parted on the street.

  “I’ve got some things to do,” Silversides said by way of excusing herself. The truth was, she wanted some time to think.

  “Going for the green and gold?” Graybar smirked.

  Instead of answering, Silversides turned and, her tail stiff, set off.

  “Catch you later,” Graybar cried after her.

  Sore-mouthed and weary, rea
dy for sleep, Silversides eased herself up into her home through the back entry flap. But no sooner did she get into the house than she came to a stop. The air was filled with an unusual aroma. It took just moments to figure out what it was: mouse. While she had been out, a mouse had come into the house! The mere thought of it rekindled her anger.

  Furious, the cat took a few more deep whiffs. That enabled her to make an even more important discovery: the mouse scent belonged to Blinker!

  The meaning was clear. The hated mouse had left the girl’s room. If Blinker was still out and about he would be defenseless. A surge of excitement gripped Silversides. Revenge was at paw. Her exhaustion fell away.

  Quickly, quietly, and efficiently, Silversides stalked the house. She examined every room, every hallway, every closet. Gradually the trail took her to the girl’s room. Though the door was open, a check of the room proved fruitless.

  Puzzled, Silversides reversed direction, following Blinker’s scent the other way, from the girl’s room to the cat door at the back of the house and then out into the backyard. The evidence was as clear as it was remarkable: Blinker must have left the house.

  “The wretched creature has fled,” the cat thought with glee. “Victory is mine!”

  Going to her rug bed, Silversides allowed herself a long, luxurious stretch and a flex of claws. Her purr was deep.

  The night, after all, had been proven extraordinarily successful. It was so successful the future finally looked bright. Life in the house would return to normal. She and the girl would become friends again. Satisfaction would return. Silversides yawned with pleasure, only to feel the pain in her mouth.

  The pain turned Silversides’s thoughts to the golden mouse, the one who had humiliated her twice. Yes, and the green-headed one. If she could get rid of those two, the good old times would be completely restored.

  The cat stretched again, yawned, and licked herself until, drowsy with the repetitious monotony of it all, she fell into a deep slumber.