Mr. Bean and the Rats of Tenneman Hall

A mother's memories manifest as questionable companions.

Future Thief: Episode Number 76

Lucille Abernathy became the sole caretaker of several families of rats after Tenneman Hall, their long-time residence, was demolished. She fed them snacks at her yellow-speckled Formica kitchen table, knit comfortable beds for them made of colorful yarn and stuffed with cotton balls and enjoyed watching them dance when she played big band music on the record player. When her bum hip didn’t act up, she took a twirl or two herself.

Lucille’s life with the rats would have gone unnoticed, if it weren’t for her neighbor, Gladys, who spotted the old woman out in the garden discussing current events with nobody in particular, chatting away while planting petunias. Gladys felt it her duty to inform Lucille’s son, Timothy, that his mother had cracked or experienced an episode of some sort. Gladys wasn’t a doctor, so she said, but he had better get over there right quick before the situation spiraled out of control.

Timothy, a tall and slender man, who dressed in slick business attire no matter the hour of day, sat sunk down in Lucille’s burgundy living room couch with cushions well past their prime. A short, fat fellow, wearing a tie too short to drape fully over his belly, fidgeted next to Timothy, inspecting the surroundings for any sign of rats. He held a notepad and pen, which he used to scribble notes. Lucille sat opposite them in her wing chair, hands folded, suspicious of the pair. 

“Oooh, that blabbermouth,” Lucille said. “Why does she always have to go sticking her pointy nose in everyone’s business?”

“Gladys is concerned for your wellbeing. That’s why I’m here with Dr. Glickson. He would like to ask you some questions,” Timothy said.

“I have a doctor — Dr. Rouhani from Pakistan. He’s a grandfather now. Imagine that, if I could be so lucky as to have grandchildren,” Lucille said.

“Dr. Glickson is a psychiatrist, Mom. I need to know that I can leave you here alone and that you’re not a danger to yourself or someone else. And seeing… things, doesn’t give me a lot of confidence.”

Before Lucille could answer, Dr. Glickson interrupted, dispensing with the pleasantries altogether, determined to prove his hourly rate plus gas and mileage stipend for a house call. 

“Mrs. Abernathy, please tell me about the rats, if you could. Although your neighbor Gladys is not exactly sure what she saw, I suspect they’re physical manifestations to you of a subconscious projection. Why do you speak to them?” Dr. Glickson asked, leaning toward Lucille.

“It would be rude not to, but manners aren’t everyone’s strong suit,” Lucille said. Dr. Glickson chuckled, but when Lucille didn’t respond in kind, he cleared his throat and continued.

“And do they speak back?” Dr. Glickson asked.

“We have lots to talk about. So much of our history together has been spent at Tenneman Hall. It’s a shame they knocked it down, but it lay dormant for years, collecting graffiti and attracting vagrants. Oh, what memories we shared, evenings spent dining under grand crystal chandeliers, and then…”

Lucille stopped talking and watched Dr. Glickson scribble more notes as he mumbled trite confirmations with a feigned interest.

“Go on, Lucille, I’m listening,” Dr. Glickson said.

“Good doctor, I can hardly believe my stories would have any interest to a man in your field. It seems my son has wasted your time and mine. I’m of sound body and mind, a judgment call you can make with an observant eye,” Lucille said.

“I’m not here to judge anyone. I make assessments and recommendations to my colleagues in the medical profession, and to the courts. If you would please continue — the memories — what did you mean when you said you shared them with the rats?”

“I did not say I shared them with the rats. The memories are shared with old friends from the neighborhood. The Thompsons, Greysons and McCallisters to name just a few, although Mrs. McCallister is now a widow. Poor Jonathon couldn’t make it out before the wrecking ball took down the south wall.”

“Mom, the Thompsons, Greysons and McCallisters have all been dead for over a decade, just like Dad. Are you saying they live as rats now?” Timothy asked.

Lucille straightened her posture, leaned back in the chair, pursed her lips and served a cold plate of condemnation across the coffee table to her son. Timothy knew the look, one he received plenty as a child, a signal that his blatant disobedience or disrespectful attitude would not be tolerated.

“I know they’re all dead, including your father. How they live, or how their memories and mannerisms live on through those delightful little creatures, is not something I’m going to question. But I know it’s not my imagination or a delusion, and I know the only way is to show you,” Lucille said.

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary. If they’re here, n-now, uh, I would prefer we just talk alone if that’s alright?” Dr. Glickson asked.

The doctor lifted his feet off the ground ever so slightly, darting his eyes around the room, convinced he could hear the scurry of tiny feet. Although he had been convinced upon arrival that the rats were the result of dementia or undiagnosed lifelong schizophrenia, a wet blanket of cognitive dissonance gave him the shivers.

Lucille made squeaking noises and snapped her fingers beside the chair. Dr. Glickson shifted in his seat and leaned forward and to the side, feeling light-headed. He watched, a small bead of sweat forming, then rolling down his temple. A tail swished from under the chair, then another, and two pairs of whiskers bobbed as little pink noses peeked out from the shadows and sniffed the floor around Lucille’s feet.

“Oh! This is a bit much, Mr. Abernathy, I’m sorry — rats carry disease — I’ve got enough to make an assessment. You need an exterminator, not a psychiatrist. We’ll be in touch,” Dr. Glickson said, fumbling his pen and notepad as he stumbled over the coffee table toward the front door. It slammed shut behind him, punctuated by the hum of his electric vehicle pulling away from the curb.

Timothy followed out the front door without a word, but didn’t close it behind him. After a few minutes, he walked back in with a cat carrier in one hand and a bag of food in the other, sat on the couch and placed both down next to him on the floor. A few of the rats froze, contemplating their next move, wary of the unwelcome visitor. The low guttural mewing sounds from a feline indicated battle lines were drawn and a war brewed on the horizon.

“I wasn’t sure if the rats were real, but I had my suspicions. This is Mr. Bean. Just as your rats have come from the ruins of Tenneman Hall, so has he, but I’m quite sure they’re not acquainted socially. He’s an outside cat, used to hunting for his meals, although the food I brought should suffice once he’s had his fill here,” Timothy said.

Before Lucille could argue, Timothy slid up the latch on the carrier and opened the door. A large orange and white ferocious ball of fur lumbered out, tail puffed, and crouched low to the ground. Several rats scurried underneath the chair. One gazed up at the kind old woman, a request for mercy or an intervention to prevent a massacre.

Lucille peered over her lap, offering comfort and a plan with her smile. She stood up and shuffled across the battlefield over to the record player. With a delicate touch, she slid a Glenn Miller record out of the sleeve, put it on the turntable, and set the needle down at the beginning to play “In the Mood”. The music crackled to life, filling the room with an electric, upbeat tempo.

“Come, come my friends, don’t be afraid. Let’s show Timothy we still know how to have a good time,” Lucille said.

A few of the rats crept out, gathered around one another and then paired up as dance partners. Two-by-two they rose up on their hind legs, clasped tiny hands together and started to swing dance. Timothy stood slowly, mouth agape, sure that he had become delusional, in need of an appointment with Dr. Glickson. 

“You’re wrong about one thing. That is not Mr. Bean. It’s Mrs. Stiletto, a fine friend and wonderful dancer. Although in this present company, I’m not sure if she’ll grace us with her moves,” Lucille said.

Timothy looked down at Mr. Bean turned Mrs. Stiletto, sitting on her haunches, tail wagging in step with the music. The cat strutted over to Lucille and rubbed in between and around the woman’s legs. In a glimmer of a memory, Timothy recognized Mrs. Stiletto, an orange and white fur hat perched atop her head, a picture of stunning beauty and grace.

“I was never a great dancer, but maybe you’ll do me the honor,” Lucille said, reaching out for her son. He reached back in a daze, not sure what else to do given the circumstances.

“But son, do us a favor,” Lucille said.

“Huh?” Timothy asked.

“Watch your step.”