Mice in the Walls

During the night, the mouse who lived in the attic and who had been trying to chew his way through since June, had been unusually busy. There were tiny paint chips in my hair and bits and pieces of the ceiling scattered over my pillow. I tasted what I imagined to be insulation and sneezed out a fine spray of dust. He was a most industrious mouse but generally only active at night and I was grateful to see that even after two months, he hadn't made much progress. Despite night after night of mouse excavations, the ceiling above my bed - while flaky and beginning to thin - was still intact. Ruthie had bet me a nickel he'd break through by Labor Day but it was already mid-August and I wasn't worried. I suspected the mouse knew more about patience and persistence than either of us.

Unhappy children are quick studies and after a summer or two of sleeping with the mouse, I'd learned that you can get used to anything. At first, the nightly gnawing and scratching had made me nervous, even apprehensive. Sometimes when a fine shower of dust would fall ever so lightly onto my face, I would stiffen with fear and move to the opposite edge of the bed, completely convinced that the mouse was about to chew through and come tumbling down, all teeth and talons. It was a colorful and thrilling scenario albeit not very likely and in time the noise became just another part of the night sounds, like the wind or the waves. Paint chips and dust were one thing, I reassured myself sleepily, but no respectable mouse was going to let itself fall through a ceiling in the dark.

My mother's fear of mice was legendary - not to mention, phobic - and my grandmother was what my daddy called rodent intolerant so I mostly kept the mouse's presence and activities a secret. I could've asked to sleep in another room but it surely would've aroused Nana's curiosity if not sent her scurrying for a mouse trap or worse, poisoned bait, so except for Ruthie, I kept it to myself.

Summer after summer passed and I still slept in the same second floor room with the same patch of ceiling above my head. For most of those summers, the mouse still scrabbled and pawed each night and I supposed it had become as much of a habit with him as he had become with me. And then one morning, I spotted a dime sized hole in the ceiling - nowhere near enough room to accommodate a mouse slipping through - but still impressive. My daddy discreetly patched and plastered over it and I never heard the mouse again. Did he accomplish his goal and move on? After a lifetime of effort, did he achieve his ambition and have no more worlds to conquer? Was the final break through too much for his little mouse heart?

“You look a mite peaked, child,” my grandmother offhandedly remarked to me a few days later, “Ain't you sleepin' well?”

Not about to confess that I missed the determined little mouse, I shrugged and made some excuse. She gave me a sharp eyed look - Nana could always tell a lie at a thousand paces - and looked thoughtful.

“Mebbe time for a change,” she said casually, “Mebbe try sleepin' downstairs for a spell. It ain't as quiet downstairs. Mice in the walls, I reckon, but they mind their business and I mind mine. Might be you git used to it.”

Might be you do.