Millhouse Read online

  Milly stared at them, perplexed. “Why is that so funny?” he asked.

  The babies sat up, blinking back at him. “We’ve never been to the diamond before. We’re only three weeks old.”

  “Three weeks old?” Milly said. “Shouldn’t you all be in bed?”

  The babies shook their heads. “Noooo.”

  “But surely it’s past your bedtime,” the pig replied.

  The babies gathered around him. “Give us a story.”

  “A story?” Milly rubbed his beard. “I can hardly finish my play. I’ve lost my dice and my lantern has flown off.”

  The babies drew closer, their eyes glittering. “Give us a story,” they said again.

  Milly tapped his chin with one finger. “Well, it is rather late … How about I sing you a song instead?”

  The baby mice cheered and formed a neat giggling circle around the pig. The guinea took a deep breath, then started singing La Bohème, an opera about a man and a woman who are dreadfully poor and hopelessly in love—just the sort of thing that bores children to death and makes adults cry. But the baby mice didn’t yawn or shift in their seats. They liked the song and applauded so enthusiastically that Milly immediately launched into another, his thick vibrato booming to the rafters of the pet shop.

  The babies were very close to tears when the Abyssinian guinea threw a handful of shavings at the crowd and savagely screamed for Millhouse to “shut the heck up!” This started the other animals shouting and banging their dishes, and soon the entire shop was hurling shavings and insults at Milly. Someone even made a rude noise with his armpit. The wild baby mice scattered in every direction, disappearing as quickly as they had appeared.

  “Brutes!” Milly cursed the other animals as he brushed the shavings from his chamois and collected his twig. “They scared my audience away. And I was just about to recite a poem.” But there was no point in continuing now. He was about to go back to his cage and sleep when suddenly he heard a soft pssssssst!

  The pig turned to see Elliot, the asthmatic rat, holding his dice. The rat winked in appreciation. “Thanks for the thing-a-ma-bub.”

  “Why, that’s my prop!” Milly said.

  “It isn’t.”

  “But it is!” Millhouse insisted. “I dropped it just minutes ago!”

  “It’s not roundular,” the rat said, making a circular motion with his finger in the air.

  “That’s because it’s a dice, not a marble.”

  “Aha!” Elliot said. “So you admit that it isn’t a prop!”

  “But it is a prop!” Milly protested. “It’s my magical dice.”

  “Magical dice,” Elliot whistled, snapping his fingers. “What does it do?”

  “Nothing. It’s just a prop. But I like to pretend that it’s magical.”

  The rat’s eyes widened. “I have just the place for it.”

  “But I need that dice for my productions,” Milly complained. “If I don’t have my dice, how am I supposed to—”

  Elliot suddenly began wheezing and coughing and sputtering, one finger held in the air.

  “Oh, bother,” the pig groaned. “Just keep it.”

  Milly left the rat groping for his thimble of water. He shuffled across the darkened pet shop, his stick and chamois in tow.

  “Can’t you see that no one cares for your pathetic performances?” the Pepper Brown taunted. “You’re nothing but a ham—a ham on rye!” The ferret paused. “Mmmmm … that sounds delicious.” And then he threw his head back and cackled.

  “How horrid!” Milly gasped, scurrying across the shop to his shoebox prop room. When the props were safely stashed, the pig crawled up the pet food boxes to the safety of his cage. He stood in the door, decided he wasn’t sleepy and turned instead to the comfort of his great volumes of important literature. Squinting in the soft liquid light of the aquarium, Milly noticed the firefly flash in the corner of the room.

  “I say,” the pig mused, looking up at the glowing firefly. “Would you be ever so kind as to assist me once again?”

  And so there the guinea stayed, reading long into the night, the firefly glowing brightly in the little wire lantern on the end of the twig at the top of the book.

  5

  The Mystery Arrival

  The next morning the pet shop was abuzz with excitement. The animals seemed to be scurrying and chattering and blinking with greater energy than ever before. Millhouse—who normally woke up to the squeaking alarm of the gerbils whirling around and around in their wheel—had slept in, having spent most of the night reading. As the pig rubbed the dreams from his eyes, the sun was already peeking through the dusty old window of the shop.

  “Heavenly muse,” Milly yawned, looking around the room. “What’s all the fuss? Have I missed something important?”

  He shook himself from top to bottom, then pressed his ear to one side of his cage to listen. The animals chattered and squealed. Milly thought he heard the white mice say something about a cat.

  “What’s this about a cat?” he asked the mice.

  But the mice, who were really more daft than rude, didn’t answer. They just kept scurrying around their cage, chittering and twitching their whiskers and crawling over each other.

  “What’s this about a cat?” Milly asked the gerbils.

  “A-a-a c-c-cat!” one of the gerbils stuttered, which sent the others stuttering and whirling in their wheel even faster than before.

  “I’ll never find out what’s going on at this rate,” the pig said. “Perhaps the other guineas can tell me.”

  Approaching the other guineas was the last thing Milly wanted to do. But curiosity got the better of him and he decided to give it a try. He would have to make himself presentable first, though. The other guineas were so quick to judge a pig on his appearance. Milly combed his whiskers with his small pink paws, splashed some water on his face and checked his teeth in the reflection of his silver food dish.

  “Now, then,” he said, addressing the guineas in his most pleasant voice, “would you be so kind as to explain what all the excitement is about?”

  “Beat it, Baldy,” the Abyssinian said.

  “Who’s that?” the Peruvian asked from beneath her mop of silky gray hair. “I can’t see a thing.”

  “It’s oon-lay him!” the Honey Cream snuffed with contempt, kicking shavings in Milly’s direction.

  “Well,” Milly began, “I was only trying to ascertain—”

  “Caahn’t you see we’re bizee?” the Honey Cream drawled, as though holding a plum in her mouth. She stared coldly at Milly.

  “But I heard something about a cat—” Milly started to explain.

  The guineas turned their backs on Millhouse as though he didn’t exist at all.

  “I should have known better than to ask them,” the pig grumbled. He rubbed his chin absently, sitting back on his haunches. “Perhaps the rat would know!” he thought, suddenly cheerful again. Pressing his whiskered face against the bars of his cage, he cleared his throat.

  “Ahem. Excuse me, Mr. Elliot …”

  Silence.

  “Ahem. Mr. Elliot?”

  The tangle of shredded newspapers in the cage beneath the chameleons rustled violently, then fell still. There was a long pause, and Milly was about to call out again when the rat burst through the top of the paper mound like a drowning swimmer, gasping and wheezing and sputtering for air. He clawed at his throat, then crashed back into the papers, only to resurface in a similar fashion. Milly watched in horror, waiting for the rat to calm himself.

  “One moment, please!” Elliot said, holding a finger in the air. He produced his thimble, but instead of drinking the water, he threw it forcefully into his own face, and began wheezing and sputtering anew. He shook his body furiously—letting out a loud “Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”—then rubbed his face all over with his quick little paws, and finished with a brisk scrub using the small white cloth he kept rolled and tucked behind one ear. That done, he smacked his thin lips and began perusin
g his morning paper for interesting tidbits, completely forgetting that Millhouse was there.

  Milly sighed in exasperation. He cleared his throat again.

  “I say, Mr. Elliot …”

  The rat looked up from his paper, as though seeing the guinea for the very first time.

  “Would you happen to know anything about a cat?” Milly ventured.

  “Addition or subtraction?” Abacus, the mole, asked.

  “Where?” Elliot said, snapping his head from side to side.

  “Here in the shop,” Milly said. “You see, I overheard the mice this morning—”

  But before the pig could finish, the rat began running around his cage, gathering all his worldly possessions, including the “magical” dice Milly had dropped the night before.

  “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me,” Milly tried to explain, but Elliot continued to heap his possessions in a frantic jumble, mumbling like a maniac the entire time.

  “See this?” he suddenly said, rushing to the front of his cage and pointing to a faint scar on his right elbow.

  Milly squinted across the room, straining to see the scar, which couldn’t have been very big because he could barely make it out, even with his 20/20 vision.

  “Cat did that!” Elliot rasped, swiping at the air in a cat-like fashion, his eyes fluttering. He snapped his fingers, slapped the thimble on his head like a helmet, grabbed some string and began tying his jumble of things in a big, disorderly package.

  “For the love of Shakespeare,” the guinea groaned. “I’ll never get any information this way. I guess I’ll just have to wait and see what the day brings.” He shuffled to the back of his cage and flopped in a disappointed heap onto his pile of cedar shavings.

  No sooner had Millhouse settled in when the bells on the shop door jangled. All the running and crawling and chattering and blinking came to an instant halt as a very official-looking man entered the shop. In his hand he carried a white paper form and a small box tied with a cord. The Weekday Man took the box and placed it on the counter. He signed the form and returned it to the very official-looking man, who promptly left.

  All the animals, with the exception of the Pepper Brown, were pressed against the front of their cages, eager to get a glimpse of the mystery parcel—and Millhouse, despite his better judgment, did the same.

  “Is that the cat?” Elliot whistled at Milly.

  The pig frowned. “Well, if it is, you have nothing to worry about. The box is awfully small.”

  “Cats start small,” the rat said, his eyes shifting. “Why isn’t he hissin’ and spittin’ and clawin’ in there? Must be up to something!”

  “Maybe he’s asleep,” Milly said.

  “Cats never sleep,” Elliot warned, his voice getting shriller. “It’s a trick. Ever watch them hide their beads?” He wiggled his fingers in front of his face.

  “Well, I imagine they close their beads—er, eyes—just like anyone else,” Milly replied, attempting to inject some reason into the conversation.

  “Wrong!” Elliot said, snapping his fingers and blinking wildly. “They can’t close ’em. They’ve got to squeeze them shutters to the middle of their beads and hold ’em there like this.” He squeezed his eyelids together as though it were very painful.

  “Sweet Bard!” Milly blurted out. “We haven’t had cats in the shop since I got here. Why would we start now?”

  The rat gave him a suspicious look. “How long you been here?”

  “Well …” Milly pulled the whiskers on his chin. “If you count the month of Sundays I spent quarantined in the back room when I first arrived, it will be exactly—”

  “Quarantined?” Elliot’s nose twitched. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing,” Milly said. “It’s only because I came to the shop from a private home and—”

  “He’s opening the box!” the rat shrieked before Milly could finish. The terrified creature let out a long, high-pitched wail like the ghost of an asthmatic rat, then sank into his morning paper. “I can’t stand to watch!”

  Milly and all the other animals looked on as the Weekday Man carefully snipped the cord from around the box. He pulled open the lid, reached his hand inside and pulled out a fully grown—

  “Addition!” the mole declared.

  “Guinea pig!” all the other animals cried in unison, and they erupted into a riot of squealing and squeaking and chattering.

  “Guinea pig?” Elliot whistled, bursting through his papers. “Guess you were wrong!” He pointed to Milly, then snapped his fingers.

  “But I never said that it was a cat,” Milly protested.

  The rat had already begun rushing around his cage, madly unpacking his worldly possessions.

  “He’s not just enee guinee,” the Honey Cream said, scowling at Milly. “He’s a White Cawllar guinee. Ver-ee fine breed. Not thaht you would know enee-thing about thaht.” She waved a friendly greeting to the newcomer.

  But the White Collar just blinked against the light of the shop, ignoring the advances of the Honey Cream.

  “Ver-ee important pig, thaht one is,” the Honey Cream assured the other guineas.

  “Seems a bit distant to me,” Milly thought, scrubbing his beard. But the new arrival had him feeling excited for the first time in he didn’t know how long. Could he and the White Collar possibly be friends? Surely such a fine guinea would have news of the outside world—perhaps even news about the theater!

  The Weekday Man carried the White Collar across the room and set him up in one of the empty high-rise cages. Once settled in his new home, the White Collar turned his back on everyone and busied himself with his well-bred thoughts.

  “Perhawps he’ll so-sha-lize laytah,” the Honey Cream drawled.

  Milly fussed about his cage, cleaning and preening himself. “I will visit our new comrade,” he said. “I’ll visit him tonight!”

  6

  The Pig Makes Contact

  By the time the Weekday Man had gone and night had drawn its curtain over the dusty old window of the shop, the White Collar had not so much as glanced at the other animals. The Honey Cream noted that a guinea of such excellent “type” required more time than usual to adapt to change, and suggested they all go to bed and try again in the morning.

  When Millhouse was sure that the other animals were asleep, he opened his cage and crawled down the pet food boxes. Sneaking across the shop, he stood at the base of the high-rise cages, hoping to catch a glimpse of the White Collar.

  “Hello,” Milly whispered toward the high-rise.

  He heard a rustle of shavings, then silence.

  “Hello,” he called again.

  The White Collar did not answer.

  “Perhaps he’s a bit shy,” Milly thought. He looked up at the White Collar’s cage. It was a long way up, but if he was able to reach the bars of the bottom cage, he could climb to the top and introduce himself properly.

  Milly searched around the room for something to stand on. There were a few newspapers, a popsicle stick and a bobby pin, but none of these would do. There were plastic bags, a feather duster, a brown glass bottle that still smelled of ginger beer and an empty pet food box leaning against the far wall.

  Milly pushed and dragged the box across the room, tipping it on its edge. He pulled himself up one side and reached for the bottom of the cages, stretching to the very tips of his toes. The box swayed and rocked, then fell with a smack just as Milly grabbed the metal rungs. Kicking and grunting, the pig finally caught a foothold and clambered up the cages to the top.

  He peered into the high-rise, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. At the back of the cage, the White Collar stood, hunched over his stainless steel water bowl. He was not asleep. He was washing his paws in the dark, slow and deliberate, as though trying to remove a nasty stain.

  Milly smiled pleasantly. “Excuse me.”

  The White Collar did not turn around.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” Milly said. “I just thought
that I would introduce myself.”

  The White Collar dried his paws as carefully as he had washed them, then turned to face the hapless pig. “Is there no con-cept of privacy here?” His voice was cold and aloof, his words chopped out like onions with a cleaver.

  “I’m ever so sorry to disturb you,” Milly rattled away, ignoring the White Collar’s rudeness. “It’s just that you seem like a pig of the world, and I’m so hungry for news of the outside. I have no idea what’s playing at any of the theaters this season. No one here has even heard of the theater, let alone attended a performance, and—”

  The White Collar raised one paw in the air, silencing Milly’s prattle. He smoothed the fur on his neck, his eyes focused on some vanishing point inside his well-bred mind. The fish aquarium bubbled and gurgled across the room. Elliot wheezed and whistled softly in his sleep. The White Collar’s nose began to twitch. At last he spoke, his words clacking out like ticker tape:

  “There are market trends and interest rates. Stocks are up and down. Investments compound annually. Interest is due at maturity and paid at redemption. Statement of investment income provided with your income tax forms. The federal tax credit to which you are entitled is shown in box 12.” The White Collar, smug and self-satisfied, looked at Milly.

  “W-what?” Milly said.

  The White Collar did not answer.

  “But what of the theater?” Milly asked again. “You see, I am a pig of the arts. I have the complete works of William Shakespeare—unabridged! I’ve memorized it all. I am a dyed-in-the-wool aficionado—”

  “You,” the White Collar said, “are nothing more than a science experiment.”

  Milly blinked. The room suddenly grew colder. “E-excuse me?”

  “You heard me,” the White Collar sneered, walking toward the horrified pig. “You are a sideshow freak.”

  “Sweet Shakespeare!” Milly gasped, his eyes wide with shock.

  The White Collar stopped at the front of his cage and pursed his lips as though catching a whiff of a very bad smell. He reached into his food dish and grasped a handful of guinea chow, his face the very picture of disdain. “They call this food?” he sniffed. Swinging his paw, he smashed the bowl, sending the chow flying like buckshot across the cage. Millhouse ducked. The White Collar straightened himself as though nothing had happened. “What do you care about the theater?” he said. “You were bred for other things—a guinea pig for cosmetic companies and science labs.” He sucked rudely on his teeth.