Misdirections

Today, I’d like to share with you a piece of short fiction I like. It’s no secret that I tend to not read fiction – I much prefer non-fiction. In fact, the only fiction I read is usually short stories and I read them because I’ve heard a story read on the radio and then order the book after loving the one story that much.

I heard this story read by the author on WGBH’s Morning Stories (http://www.wgbh.org/morningstories), which is my favorite podcast and I highly recommend, over a year ago. Hearing the author read it brought a few tears to my eye and I immediately ordered the book and love (almost) all the stories in it. (Most of the stories actually brought a tear or two to my eyes…)

The book is Between Camelots, by David Harris Ebenbach. Check out his website (http://www.davidebenbach.com) and if you like the story, buy the book. It's worth it, trust me.

---

Misdirections (posted with permission from David Ebenbach)

My Wife is using the mice as an excuse to let our marriage fall apart. All night they crawl around in our walls and we can hear them gnawing. They're gnawing at the foundation of our marriage, she says. She complains I won't do anything about them, or about anything else, and that's the problem. Neither of us mentions the man whose sweat she smells like these days.

But I put out humane traps, little plastic opaque boxes for them to get cornered in. Our son loads the peanut butter into the back ends. That same evening, we've got our first mouse. The box rattles on the kitchen table.

My son and I are going to release it by the lake, and he asks his mother to come. He knows and doesn't know. She wipes her hands dry and reluctantly agrees.

I can feel the mouse moving in the box as we walk down Jenifer Street. Because it's a strange feeling, I let my son carry it a while. He squeals with the thrill of it, but my wife is silent.

I think of something. I ask my son, "What if it finds its way back?" His eyes grow wide.

"It's three blocks," my wife says. "The mouse isn't that smart."

"Well, maybe," I say loudly, and wink at my son. "I just hope it doesn't remember to head for Spaight Street and turn left and go to the fifth house." That's not how you get to our house. I'm giving the mouse misdirections. My son laughs, excited. Despite herself, so does my wife.

Soon we're all giving loud misdirections, just like a family.

By the lake, we all stoop down and I prepare to let the mouse go. Our son has his eyes wide and mouth open, surprised and awed in advance. I look up at my wife and she is looking at me, expectant, hopeful. This mouse, I think, is giving me my family back. Lowering the box to the ground, I put my finger on the little door, ready. I am almost asking her, with myeyes, whether we might keep the mouse. Can We? When she sees that question, though, her face answers by sinking out of its smile. She sighs and looks away from me.

I open the door. Before I've even caught sight of the mouse, it's completely gone.