A short story by Len Kuntz

The Musketeers

The mice hunkered together gray and trembling in one corner of the box, four of them.  They had been born blind , never even acquiring eyes.  They scrabbled against the hard paper, shivering under the light, sensing its sudden heat upon my son flipping open the lid.

He named them the Four Musketeers.  One had a white oval shape on its head as if it had been scalded.  My son said to notice their twitching whiskers.  He said, “Put your finger under their nose and see what happens,” and when I did the first one nipped my nail.

“Hey!”
“They’re just being friendly.”
“Where did you get them anyway?”
“I thought they were a present from you.”
“Are you kidding me?  I hate rats.”
“They’re not rats.”
“Mice, hamsters, gerbils, what’s the difference?”

He pushed out his lower lip.  His eyes began to water.  I apologized.

My son insisted on taking the mice with him wherever he went.  I allowed it except for school, and even then I discovered him stuffing the mice into a metal lunch box, camouflaging the rodents with his blankets of bread and PB & J.

He wrote stories about his blind mice.  He read them aloud to the mice and had the critters act out some of the scenes by holding up a furry limb and moving it to whatever action he needed.

My wife said it wasn’t healthy.  She said the boy had my imagination and she didn’t mean that as a compliment.  She warned me.

My own parents were tyrants—belt on buttocks, pants pulled down-types.  They’d made me the opposite, a softie.

When my wife gave me notice, I was blindsided.  We’d made love for several hours the night before.  “Is this for real?” I asked, flapping the divorce papers over my cereal bowl.

“It’s as real as your lousy cunnilingus,” she said.

…

My boy took the news especially well.  He said, “It’s all right, Dad.  We’re men.  We’re survivors.”

A month went by, then several more.  It felt okay.  My son was right.

Then my wife phoned.  “You’re sick,” she said.

I told her I felt really good.

“Stop the games.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The mice.”
“Huh?”
“They’re everywhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“There must be a hundred.  I open the door and five or six slip out.  The landlord’s promising to evict me.”

I was stunned but even so I chuckled.

“Yeah, very funny.  Not only that, I keep finding mice pellets everywhere.  This morning I found a paw in my cereal and I accidentally ate it thinking it was a yogurt cluster in my Special K.  Stop laughing.  What if I get rabies?”

When I saw my son, we exchanged looks.  I asked how The Four Musketeers were.  He said, “They’re tuckered out.”

“Can I see them please?”
“I don’t want to wake them.”
“I’ll be careful.”

He brought me a basinet, a Moses basket with a rattan handle, lifted the blanket and showed me they’re quivering slumber.

“Is that good enough?” he asked, and I said it was.

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© Len Kuntz 2010

Len Kuntz has over 170 stories and poems in such places as Elimae, Juked, Storyglossia and others.