Emmy and the Incredible Shrinking Rat (16 page)

“I know this is for some charity or the other, but honestly, I can't think which one, they all just
blur
in my mind—”

“Something about saving the children—or is it the whales?”

“Speaking of children, who's got ours tonight?” a man said carelessly.

“Oh, some babysitter … or wait, maybe they're sleeping over with friends.” A woman in a beaded dress spoke vaguely. “Anyway, don't worry, darling, they're with
somebody.
”

Emmy saw the professor through a space between elbows. She wedged in closer, coming up behind him.

“That's right—Hamelin jam tarts.” The professor's voice was pitched above the noise. “Baked fresh this morning in Germany—see the little rat foot stamp? That's their signature imprint.”

Little shrieks went up all around. Hands reached out to take the tarts from the silver tray that Brian offered.

“Oh, this is too
much
—a rat's foot, look at this!”

“Hamelin—isn't that the town in the story about the Pied Piper?”

“How clever of you,” said the professor, beaming. “That is exactly right.”

“Wasn't that the story about the guy who got rid of the rats and then got rid of the children?”

“What a
coincidence
—and this
fund-raiser
is for children—”

“Not a coincidence at all, ma'am,” said the professor. “The Addisons had these specially made just for this event, because of the connection to lost and abandoned children, you see.”

Emmy hid a grin and tugged on his sleeve. “Professor? Where did you leave the you-know-what?”

He inclined his head, dimpling beneath his beard. “Kitchen pantry,” he said in her ear. “Blue case. I'll meet you upstairs in ten minutes.”

T
HE CHINCHILLA
was a little slow on the uptake.

“Jam is not brown,” it said, licking boysenberry from between its toes. “It is not white with green things on top, either.”

“This is not jam,” Emmy explained patiently. “It's liverwurst. And the other one is cream cheese with olive.”

The chinchilla peered dully at the little sandwiches before it. “But I like
jam.
”

Emmy sighed, grasped the chinchilla firmly around its soft, tubby middle, and stamped its paw in the liverwurst. She stamped it in the cream cheese. Then she stamped it in a tofu canapé for good measure, covered the little sandwiches with a slice of thin cocktail bread, and speared each one with pickle and olive on toothpicks.

“There!” she said, dumping the chinchilla back in its cage with relief. She arranged the sandwiches on a tray along with two jam tarts and a cluster of grapes.

“I could have put my foot in the tarts, too,” the chinchilla said, gazing at Emmy with its pale stupid eyes. “I like—”

“Jam,” finished Emmy wearily. “I know.” She washed the jam off the little clay sculpture she had baked earlier in the day and put it back in her pocket. “I'll wash off your foot, too, if you like.”

The chinchilla, which had begun to lick its paw, stopped to consider this. “But I
like
liverwurst.”

 

Professor Capybara was waiting in the third-floor hallway. Emmy walked carefully to Miss Barmy's door, holding the tray. The professor knocked.

“Why, Emmaline!” Miss Barmy's face looked blotchy and her eyes puffy, but she stretched her lips in a smile. “How very nice to see—”

She stopped dead and looked nervously behind her, sniffing the air. “I mean, it was very kind of you to bring me some food from the party.”

“Professor Capybara thought it would be a good idea.” Emmy held the tray out stiffly, in the manner of a reluctant child.

Miss Barmy's eyes glittered from Emmy to the professor. “Won't you come in?”

Emmy set the tray down on a little table. “It's for you,” she said. “I already ate downstairs.”

“But have you had one of these delicious-looking tarts?” Miss Barmy's smile widened.

“Professor Capybara said I couldn't have one without your permission.” Emmy gazed up at her innocently. “They're full of refined sugar; they're terribly unhealthy.”

“Pish posh!” Miss Barmy waved her hand airily. “Just one won't hurt you. Eat it, Emmaline—I insist.”

“Really?” Emmy looked down at the tarts, each one with its rodent footprint in the exact center, and took one. “
Mmm!
They
are
good. Aren't you going to have a tart, too?”

Miss Barmy pushed the remaining tart to one side. “I think not, my dear. But I will try these charming little sandwiches.” She took a dainty bite of the liverwurst, and then another, watching Emmy the whole time.

Emmy sat still for a moment. And then suddenly Miss Barmy began to smile.

It was a real smile this time, and it made her blotchy face quite extraordinarily beautiful. “You
know, you really are a nice little girl,” she said warmly. “And I'm afraid I've been rather horrible to you. I can't imagine why.”

“Can't you?” said the professor, looking intensely interested.

Miss Barmy paused a moment, puzzled. “No, I can't. And it troubles me.” Her eyes fell on her cane and she picked it up, touching the carved faces gently. “These were all nice girls, too.”

“
Were
, Miss Barmy?” Emmy held her breath. “Are they dead?”

“No … no, I don't think so. It's their parents who are dead, but I can't quite remember why …”

“You're not feeling well, and we really must leave you in peace,” said the professor as he ushered Emmy quickly out of the room. “More questions might be dangerous in her state,” he added in a low voice.

“Must you go? There's really nothing wrong with me … nothing at all …”

A full, rounded, remarkably ripe and rotten smell came drifting out of the room like a cloud of poison gas. Emmy choked and ran for her room, followed by Professor Capybara, who was pinching his nose.

“Oh, help,” he gasped as Emmy's door shut behind him. “I never would have believed it if I hadn't smelled it for myself.”

Emmy pulled the clay model of a chinchilla foot out of her pocket and looked at it with satisfaction. “My idea worked pretty well, don't you think?”

“To perfection,” said the professor, shaking her hand in congratulations. “You ate the fake chinchilla print, Miss Barmy the real—and now she's the one who's had her true values turned inside out!” He chortled happily, but sobered almost at once. “Still, you've only bought yourself some time. As soon as the chinchilla effect wears off, she'll be back to her normal self.”

“When will that be, do you think?”

The professor pursed his lips. “It took a weekend to wear off for your parents the first time, didn't you say?”

Emmy nodded.

“Well, I'd guess Miss Barmy will be pleasant for at least that long. You see, the chinchilla effect varies depending on the strength of the principles it opposes. Your parents loved you, so they fought off the chinchilla effect very quickly—at least until it began to build up in their systems. Now, in Miss
Barmy's case, the badness in her will be battling the chinchilla effect for all it's worth.”

“It'll be a short fight,” said Emmy gloomily.

“Still, I'd be surprised if we didn't have at least a week of sweetness and light from the lady.”

There was a rustling from within Emmy's bathroom and a small gray rodent came hurrying out, his hair spiky with gel. “Professor,” the Rat cried breathlessly, clutching a bit of paper in his paw. “Is it time?”

“It's almost time for the program, if that's what you mean,” said the professor, looking at his watch. “Emmy, shall we go? Let's show those people downstairs a real, live child—someone who should
not
be abandoned.”

“But what about
me
?” The Rat jumped up and down, waving his paper. “I'm going to
sing
! I've got it all
ready
!”

The professor looked at him keenly. “I didn't know you wanted to be part of the program, Raston. I did bring the Universal Rodent Translator, but I was just going to let the chinchilla say a few words. That always impresses everyone.”

The Rat looked appalled. “The chinchilla? You can't be serious!”

“I admit, he's not the brightest bulb in the light fixture—”

“He's as dumb as toast,” said the Rat earnestly. “Look, it's all written down, it rhymes and everything, I spent
hours
—”

Professor Capybara tucked Raston into his breast pocket. “Come along then, Emmy,” he said. “The program is about to start.”

“But are you really going to let Raston sing?”

“Of course. Who could resist a singing rat?”

 

Professor Capybara moved briskly down the stairs and through the tiled hall. Surprised, Emmy noticed that people stepped aside as they approached, courteously letting them pass.

Snatches of conversation flew over her head as before. But there wasn't quite so much shrieking. The laughter was gentler, somehow. And the comments didn't seem nearly so mean.

“So how are your kids doing? Abby's about to graduate, isn't that right?”

“… and the profits have been so good this year, I want to give employee bonuses.”

“Sure, we made a small donation to S.P.A.N.K.—but I spent thirty times that on a dress for tonight. What was I
thinking
?”

They were at the platform. Emmy looked around, perplexed.

“Say, where
are
our kids tonight?” A dark-haired man set down his drink, frowning, and turned to a woman wearing a dress of silver beads.

She stared at him, her eyes wide. “John! I just realized—I have
no idea
!”

“Testing, testing,” said the professor, tapping a microphone that was affixed to a tall wooden stand. He spoke quietly to Emmy's mother. The musicians put down their bows as Mrs. Addison stepped to the wooden lectern and laid down a sheet of paper.

“Darlings,” she trilled. “Thank you
so
much for coming tonight to this fund-raiser for the”—she looked down at the paper—“for the Society for the Protection of Abandoned and Neglected Kids. My daughter, Emmy, is here to remind us of the real children we are trying to help.”

Emmy stepped up on a little box and leaned over the lectern. “Hello,” she said shyly, into the microphone.

“And as a further treat, we have here a surprise visit from the very distinguished Maxwell Capybara, world-renowned professor of rodentology, who has come with something very
unusual
for us tonight. Professor?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Addison. Some years ago, I retired to do further research into the wonderful and amazing abilities of rodents. And here tonight, for the benefit of abandoned and neglected children everywhere, you are about to witness the world premiere of one of the most amazing rodents it has been my privilege to know. Please give your closest attention to the astounding, the extraordinary, the incredible shrinking Raston Rat!”

The lights dimmed. A spotlight shone as the professor affixed a small metal box to the microphone's head, lifted Raston from his pocket, and set him on top of the lectern.

The Rat pulled out his paper, somewhat crumpled, and cleared his throat. He blinked in the bright light, looked out over the crowd—and froze.

There was a profound silence. From a ceiling vent overhead came a small restless shuffling.

“Sing!” Emmy hissed, poking him lightly in the back.

The Rat blushed from his ears to his tail, took a deep, chest-swelling breath, and sang. To the tune of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” he sang, with all the power his lungs possessed:

There was a pause. From the vent overhead came an enthusiastic squeak. And then the room erupted in a thunder of applause.

The dark-haired man put his arm around his wife,
and together they turned toward the door. “Sorry—excuse us—we have to find our children,” Emmy heard as they walked rapidly out.

There was a sound of sniffling. All around the room, eyes were dabbed and noses were honked. Emmy looked at her parents, standing together and staring. And then the professor was at her side, tucking Raston into his pocket.

“One of the best appeals I've ever heard,” he said, chuckling to himself as he led Emmy out of the room, “and certainly the most creative. Raston, you're a
star.
”

Emmy looked over her shoulder at the partygoers as she followed the professor up the stairs. “They're all so different now,” she marveled. “I still can't believe you imprinted all those tarts and handed them around.”

“It wasn't in the original plan,” the professor admitted, “but when I listened a moment to the talk at the party, I couldn't resist. Somebody had to wake up those people.”

“What do you mean?” The Rat poked his head out of the professor's pocket. “I did that with my song, didn't I?”

Professor Capybara nodded. “Yes, indeed. But they wouldn't have bothered to listen if the tarts hadn't prepared the way. Brian and I didn't go near your parents, of course,” he added hastily, looking at Emmy. “But to all the rest of them—all those shallow, bragging, vulgar folk—we gave the chinchilla tarts. All at once, the things they thought were important became petty and small. And the things they didn't care much about were suddenly worth the whole world.”

Emmy smiled.

“So you mean—,” said the Rat, light dawning.

The professor chuckled deep in his chest. “That's right! Suddenly, money meant
nothing
to them, except for the good it could do. They no longer cared about trying to make people envy them—they thought about making people feel valued. And their children, who they had neglected and forgotten and left to the care of strangers—”

“Became the most important people in the world!” finished the Rat triumphantly.

“It may not last, of course,” said the professor, sighing, “at least not for most of them. But it's a nice change, don't you think?”

Emmy nodded fervently as she mounted the last flight of stairs. “Speaking of change, Professor, Miss Barmy isn't going to stay nice for long. Would you try very hard tomorrow to find a rat potion that will stop her for good?”

“Yes, I certainly shall.” Professor Capybara puffed slightly as he reached the third-floor hall. “But the chart, as you know, is smudged and faint in some very crucial places; and my notes are completely mixed up. I don't even have a blood sample to analyze.”

“A blood sample? From Miss Barmy?”

“Yes. That's where the charascope is so useful, you see. It shows me all of her weak points.”

A door opened at the end of the hall. Miss Barmy shuffled toward the bathroom wearing a fluffy white robe and bunny slippers.