The Attic

The roof mice watched out of the little dormer window in the attic with growing excitement. Blue balloons were tied to the jolly scarecrow on the front lawn, bobbing gaily in the light fall breeze. A banner hung over the front door welcoming guests and a steady stream of visitors entered the house, each carrying baskets and gift bags in pretty pastel shades. A paunchy man huffed and puffed as he brought in a 5 ft stuffed giraffe wearing a satin bow. An older lady in a lilac two piece wheeled in a stroller festooned in curly ribbons. The mice from the dining room scampered upstairs to boast of all the delectable treats spread out on the table – jello and cakes, all manner of cheeses and cold cuts and fruit salads. They planned to sneak down later that night to see what morsels might remain for them to nibble on. Party days were always feast days for the mice.

The next few weeks the house was abuzz with activity. The study was emptied out, with Mr. Driscoll dragging the wooden desk and black office chair up the narrow staircase to the attic, where the younger mice had a fabulous time spinning round and round on the seat until they were dizzy. Then came days of painting, and a stack of paint pots appeared near the Easter decorations, drips of powder blue on the metal lids. The mice listened nervously as Mr. Driscoll hammered away in the small room, building a wooden crib and a changing table with much cussing involved. The huge giraffe moved into the corner, and a rocking chair draped in cozy blankets sat beside the window. Mrs. Driscoll came often to admire his handiwork, one hand lovingly placed on her ever-expanding belly. The house was serene and a sense of anticipation hung in the air, even the roof mice felt it when they crept downstairs to steal food from the dog’s bowl, under the weary but watchful eye of Murphy, the elderly basset hound. Something special was coming, a change more than just the new crispness in the winter mornings and frost on the windows.

Then, one night, there was a great commotion in the bedroom below the attic. Mr. and Mrs. Driscoll left in a big hurry, him carrying a large bag filled with clothes and her waddling slowly towards the waiting car. The mice took advantage of the quiet house to raid the pantry, happily munching on cereal bars and bags of porridge oats.

It was late the next day when the car returned, and Mrs. Driscoll moved slowly and tentatively, wincing with each step. Mr. Driscoll carried a car seat gingerly as though afraid to drop it, and the mice squeaked in excitement at the sight of a red-faced human baby in a light blue sleepsuit and hat. They all knew what babies meant – dropped crumbs and treats galore.

Life settled into new patterns in the Driscoll house – soft crying sounds wafted up the stairs to the attic, waking the sleepy mice day and night. Sometimes Murphy howled along, a long and mournful awooh in unison with his young master. The mice liked it best when Mrs. Driscoll sang, lullabies that lulled the sobbing baby back to sleep and calmed the anguished dog. Mr. Driscoll was in charge of dinner time, and he was a messy cook so there were often potato peelings and pizza crusts for the hungry mice to enjoy.

One weekend Mr. Driscoll clambered up on to the roof with armloads of the Christmas lights, and the mice watched through the dormer window as he lit up the trees outside with a cheery white glow. The holidays were coming, and the younger mice were always sad to see him carry the boxes of shiny baubles and crinkly tinsel downstairs. Christmas only ever happened down there, never in the attic. Instead it was a time of plain storage boxes and boredom. They watched the plastic tree being set up from the top of the staircase, with its sparkling fairy lights and myriad of colored ornaments. Under the tree sat a larger than usual pile of presents – stuffed toys and boxes of building blocks and a fat palomino pony on rockers. The baby was going to be spoiled for his first Christmas.

Up in the attic the mother mice decorated their nests with a few stolen strings of angel hair, attempting to brighten the place up for the youngsters. Smells of warm spiced cookies and rich eggnog floated up the stairs and made their mouths water.

One mid-December night there were no sounds of crying from the powder blue room. Murphy whimpered and scratched at the door, but Mrs. Driscoll was exhausted and didn’t wake till the frosty morning sun filtered through her bedroom curtains. The mice, tired from a night of scampering about, were tucked in their nests asleep when the scream came.

A long, terrible, heart wrenching sound that filled the whole house and lasted impossibly long. Mr. Driscoll came running and suddenly the house was a flurry of activity again, with blue and red flashing lights on the ambulance out front and a stony-faced policeman in the living room questioning the couple for what seemed like hours. The mice stayed hidden but watchful, and poor Murphy was shut up in the kitchen where he whined pitifully all day long.

The next days brought the first snowfall, but the twinkling lights on the trees outside were switched off. Mrs. Driscoll spent lonely hours sat rocking in the little blue room, weeping. Mr. Driscoll lugged the Christmas tree, still decorated, up to the attic where he flung it angrily in the corner by the chimney.  The baby mice stared in awe and climbed high in its branches to taste the red and white candy canes and chew the wrappers off the tinfoil chocolate Santas.

The older mice were worried. There had never been a Christmas in the attic before, yet here was the tinsel, the delicate glass bubbles and dangling silver stars, everything that usually lived in the downstairs world where mice were forbidden. They had dreamed of Christmas many times, but this one came with none of the usual smells of turkey and sweet potatoes and ham. It felt cold and wrong even as the baby mice played and ripped open the brightly wrapped presents, climbing on the fat rocking horse and sliding down its tail. On the far side of the attic the crib lay empty besides the forlorn stuffed giraffe, his silk bow drooping.

The mice wondered – would it ever be Christmas downstairs again?