Rats by Colleen T.

I am seven years old when I witness my first murder.

It is early spring in Georgia. The ground is mush and the day is overcast. So far I have spent my time drawing mermaids in the storage closet on the second level. My mother is cleaning out the garage.

I am reworking a scaled tail as Patrick throws open the door, leaning over on his knees, his chubby face matching his cropped orange hair. I have to come downstairs, he says. Mommy found something.

I refuse at first, intent on making sure the fins of my mermaid are proportional, but he grows indignant. Mommy found something, he repeats. She found rats. Don’t I want to see the rats?

I abandon my mermaid to follow him.

My brother and I weave through the mess of the garage in sock-clad feet, mindful of fallen screws and nails. We stop as we reach my mother’s thighs. She’s standing above a frayed cardboard box in the middle of the driveway, filled with her old work papers. I don’t see any rats. I’m ready to go back inside. But Patrick shrieks and points. Rats! Rats! A sleek shot of gray dashes from one edge of the box to another. I ask if we can keep them. My mother is adamant. Rats are dirty, disgusting nuisances. We will not be keeping them.

Mr. Tarpley wanders over to stand across from us, peering down into the box after a quick spit on the gravel. Yup. You have rats. He wheezes and laughs, rubbing his right hand against a stained denim jacket. He pushes his glasses up and calls for his son. Matthew appears in the doorway of our neighbor’s home, tall and nearly sixteen now with a brown buzz cut and wide cheeks. Mr. Tarpley leans forward yelling the Truskeys have them some rats, and he needs a gun. He turns back around again.

He bends over, and sticks his hand in the box, flipping over shredded and discolored charts. I gasp. My brother tries to get a closer look, but my mother’s sharp-nailed hand grips his shirt. A bundle of baby rats, all sleek fur, bolt in various directions. I’m desperate now. I want one. But my mother repeats herself. No rats. Rats aren’t pets.

Matthew arrives now, smiling, with two handguns and a packet of bullets especially made for shooting rodents. Mr. Tarpley grabs one of the firearms from him, loads and cocks it. My mother pulls my brother and I back to the garage.
Matthew and Mr. Tarpley are ready now, pointing at the box with glossy pistols, Mr. Tarpley’s foot resting against the edge. He counts. One. Two. Three. The cardboard box is flipped over and suddenly baby rats are scurrying frantically in all directions. A blast, the box jumps, papers flying. I shriek. The first gunshot is followed by another, and pellets are flying off of the driveway, rats are leaping and falling dead all in the same moment. Matthew is nearly shot in the foot in the chaos, trying to escape the rats himself. But Mr. Tarpley stands firm. He notices a shadow to his left, and shoots a final time in its direction. The last rat collapses, limp. Mr. Tarpley lets out a scraggly laugh.

You don’t have no rats anymore, he says, and spits.