Trap

by Shawn R. Gaines

“That’s cruel,” Mom would say. About anything, really. Fur coats? That’s cruel. Pointing at the homeless? So cruel. Going through the express lane at the grocery store with thirteen items? Cruel. I can still hear the word rolling off her tongue, like a curled hedgehog pounding his way down a groovy hill – crrrrrruellll.

I remember, when I was eight, Dad coming home, shooing away the neighbor’s terrier, and walking to the kitchen. He set down a large grocery bag. “Great deals today,” he said, to validate his purchase as usual. He then pulled out three rolls of toilet paper, a slightly frayed Bengals cap, and a four pack of wooden mousetraps.

“That’s cruel,” said Mom, pointing out that she has never seen, and expects never to see, a mouse inside these doors.

Dad shrugged. “Just in case,” he explained, before opening the cabinet door underneath the sink and wedging the mousetraps between an old water bucket and a rusty pipe.

I listened attentively that night, to my parents, as they roared with laughter and told stories of their day from their bedroom. My room was directly above and when I angled my 13-inch TV on the floor against my closet, I could dampen my own movements and listen, ear set downward, to my parents below.

Mom thought the mousetraps were a waste of money, no matter what deal the grocery store had, although Dad thought make-up was a less practical investment. Mom laughed and Dad whispered something about his Grandfather and I fell asleep, my cheek now rung along the hardwood floor, lashes to dirt.

I woke a couple hours later and I heard more laughter. But, as I deepened my perception, I found it emotionless and a matter of cackles or screams, high and low, an aria crescendo waning to a lonely screech. I quickly jumped to my feet, clenching my fists as if to prevent the floor from shaking. Slowly, I tiptoed to the door, creaked it open, and safely proceeded down the carpeted stairwell.

Nearer the kitchen, the womanly sounds became muffled by thunderous stomps. I turned quickly into the kitchen doorway and spotted my mother, her eyes pointed, her hair wrangled, and her feet blurred against the tiles. She opened her mouth, but spotted me and swallowed what I can only guess would’ve been another cackle.

Around her left foot was a dark splattered sea of red, in no pattern, dropped like a modern art piece against the finish. The color ran to her shoe, where a dark gray tail emerged from the back of her sole, patches of fur almost climbing the sides of the rubber.

“I,” she said, sheepishly attempting to mumble her way through, “It came out of nowhere and I didn’t know what to do.”

And I nodded and I turned, only glad that Mom had found those shoes on sale last week.