Triple Decker in JP similar to my Aunt Helen's.

Dirty, invasive, ruthless, determined, conniving invaders that are content to wait in the dark when I am weak and cause me lasting pain. Disease will fly through my body, lighting up the scanning devices to reveal I am tainted. I will be doomed to have some weird tic or odd purple speckled rash on the back of my upper arm that is dormant except at odd times like when I want to wear a sleeveless dress.

I am not sure how I came to fear vermin. Perhaps it is because my parents wouldn’t let us have pets with legs. We grew up using Mr. Clean spray for everything. I was on my hands and knees at an early age making sure baseboards were clean, the backs of cabinets dusted. There was little to no chance of invasion in the Barrett house.

My first encounter with vermin was when I was twenty-two. It was a gladiatorial battle in my tiny apartment in Jamaica Plain, MA. I was living in the attic of my Aunt Helen’s three-story home.

Scurrying is an underrated skill and vermin with hair the color of dusty dark is an asset for surprise attacks and exits.

I heard its iron nails first. The tap, tap, scratch, tap, tap, scratch confidently hitting the hardwood, drawing my attention to triangulate its location, mine, and my escape route to the door. The dimly lit room seemed only to ensure I would see its growing shadow. I imagined it growing to half the height of my bed. It would easily climb up and burrow under my sheets, leaving a horrible scene for my poor elderly aunt to find.

My body remained inert and my mind took flight. Convinced the predator would take a big bite out of me, or at least my toe, I stayed on my bed.

I summoned my strength to gain the advantage of light. From my bed, I tried to reach the floor lamp nearby. It was just beyond my reach. I stretched out my torso first and then further with my arms to fingers coming within 3-4 inches of the dangling tarnished metal pull. I felt my weight shift and I began to fall, head first. My hand slapped the floor, breaking my fall. I planted it like a gymnast, keeping my body off the ground, but now my fingers and wrist were exposed. Jesus. My long hair hung in front of my eyes and I knew I had only seconds to act. A booster shot of fear kicked my adrenaline into action and I bent my arm further down and catapulted my body back up onto the bed. Thank you, God, I thought…

With the morning light, the iron tap, scratch had quieted long ago. I dashed downstairs to join my Aunt Helen for breakfast. As I tried to tell her of the monster lurking behind the baseboards, she cut me off with a laugh. She said, “The mice come in the winter and all homes in Boston have mice." She told me to get a trap at the shop down the street. She also told me I would not see the mouse in the daylight. She equated my encounter to one with a mosquito or spider. She was jaded. I had to admit she was smart and successful so I tried to borrow her courage. The shopkeeper showed me two traps. A spring-loaded metal bar that would snap down to kill it or if it was lucky, just cut off its tail. The other trap was a glue tray to stop it in its tracks. I liked the bloodless solution. I wasn’t a killer.

Aunt Helen told me to put the trap under my bed and put a little cracker on it. I snapped a corner off a saltine and dropped it on the shiny mustard glue trap. I slid the trap to the far side of my bed and heard it bounce back off the wall.

Now, I had to wait. My aunt told me not to worry about the mouse biting me while in bed because mice don’t climb. “How did they get to the attic?” I asked her. She laughed. And said nothing.

I went to bed wearing my converse sneakers and kept my green wool knit mittens nearby just in case. I took an inventory of all the urban sounds until they faded while I tuned my ear to hear the breathing and iron footsteps of the predator. I drifted off to sleep, my fists clenched and my body coiled up as much for containment as warmth. Half the night passed when I heard it’s tapping nails. It wasn’t near. I wondered where it was. Maybe my aunt’s front room? What the heck? I finally fell asleep, exhausted. In the morning the tray was empty and the cracker untouched.

Later that afternoon, I returned home from work and enjoyed dinner with my aunt. I wasn’t thinking about the vermin until I put my hand on the doorknob to head up to my room, I felt cold, slightly weak. I walked upstairs slowly. As I opened my closet door to hang my winter coat, I heard a distinct squeaking sound. I could tell it was coming from the area near my bed.

I am not proud of what happened next.

“I am not a hunter. I am not a hunter,” I thought to myself, hating that this was a new role in a play I did not audition for. I pulled my bed away from the wall and saw a tiny gray brown mouse clearly stuck in the glue. The cracker was mostly eaten but sadly for the mouse, half of it’s lower jaw was stuck to the tray as was most of its body. It must have gone too aggressively at a crumb.

Terrified, but wanting to free it outside, I remembered my mittens. I grabbed the tray and mouse with both mittens and ran down the stairs that opened to the kitchen. Not stopping, I ran past my aunt saying, “Sorry, sorry, sorreeee” until I reached her front door. I realized my mittens were now stuck to the glue tray and I couldn’t turn the handle. I screamed, fearing the inside of my hand was about to be bitten. “Aunt Helen, please help me open the door.” She eventually reached me and looked at my green mittens in prayer mode.

“What’s wrong, dear?” She asked, way too calmly.

Muttering, unable to speak with any clarity as I sensed the poison would soon be dripping into my bloodstream, I moved my prayer hands in a scissor motion saying “I caught the mouse. Please open the door.”

When she did, I ran down the stairs to the front door of the house. Jesus. It would take too long for Aunt Helen, who was now standing at the top of the stairs watching me.

I squeezed out my left hand from the glove and, balancing the trap and my left glove with my right hand, opened the door and stood on the porch.

I quickly realized there was no place to let it go. I lived in a city and no one wanted a mouse.

Reluctant murderers lie to themselves. My lie was my role in the greater good, to save the neighborhood. My Aunt Helen was also my landlord, old and frail, and wanted the mouse killed. It was an invader, content to chew away walls, her equity, and my sanity.

I saw the old metal trash barrels by the curb. Like a helping hand from God, I saw my opportunity and took it. I held the mass of apple green wool, yellow glue and grey mouse between my left index finger and thumb. I dropped the mouse into the barrel and fought off all thoughts of his possible recovery and put the cover on. I turned back towards the house and saw the first floor tenants standing at the window looking at me. I moved my eyes up to find Aunt Helen at her front room window smiling, clapping her hands.

Read Of Mice and Me by Linda-Marie