A Story in Two Parts: Woodrats, Part I
Sep 02 '03
The Bottom Line ...Sarah found herself surprised by her pleasure in being a killer...
The dead rat's eyes bulged from their sockets like tiny black champagne corks and Sarah found herself surprised by her pleasure in being a killer.
She thought of the zebra she had watched on the National Geographic Special, chased down and caught by a powerful lioness, still alive as the lioness began to tear at its flesh, the zebra helpless on its side, its eyes wide with terror, struggling occasionally, fully aware of its own imminent death, and how at the time she had empathized with the zebra, a gentle, striped horse in her eyes.
But tonight she was suddenly the lioness, powerful and unrelenting, and the rat, still limp and warm, preserved in its last hungry moment, and almost cute even with its neck cleanly broken, was perhaps to be only her first victim of the week.
She remembered the staff meeting, and how she had at first thought it nothing more than tacky when her boss, the Institute's executive director, had said, "Today, three of you are getting a raise."
Her second thought had been, "It's about goddamn time," but she had quickly checked that thought, as it wasn't consistent with her patient and virtuous nature.
In addition to the executive director, six people had been present at the meeting, three researchers and three support staff, and the suspense created by her boss's inappropriate behavior could only have served to create divisions or resentments among her coworkers--divisions which had never been there in the past.
Sarah remembered clearly how she had responded: "I just want it to be known that our accomplishments--all of the publications and the work in progress--none of this could have been achieved without the help of Nancy, Claire and Laverne. Any time we needed anything done--questionnaires, typing, data entry--they've been there for us."
She had almost said that she wouldn't accept a raise unless everyone got one, including the support staff, but then she realized that this was probably carrying things a bit too far.
She had worked there for three years and in that time had helped bring the Institute to a whole new level. She knew that she deserved whatever was coming to her.
Why had she not received a raise in the past? Probably because she hadn't asked for one. Her father, a Methodist minister, had always taught her to work hard and be humble. "Truly religious people pray in closets or alone in the woods," he had said, "not where others can see them. The others, they pray more out of vanity--to be seen praying--than out of love for God. And hard working individuals never ask for more than they're making," he had continued. "They work because they love to work and they will receive what they deserve. God sees to that."
Sarah noticed that the rat wasn't swaying from the trap as it had when she first took it down--it was beginning to stiffen. She stepped outside and carefully removed the dead animal from the trap's clutches, lifting the metal bar with her right hand and sliding the wooden base from beneath its head with her left.
Gingerly, she picked up the rat by its tail and tossed it down the hill.
In the moonlight, she could still vaguely see her stiffening victim, its frozen eyes staring as if surprised, and as she turned, she thought she saw something familiar in its furry face. Was it an old pet? A bearded friend? Or just her imagination? She could not tell--it was just a feeling.
What was not her imagination was the wave of sadness she felt coming over her, ever so slight, but real nonetheless.
The joy of being a predator seemed to be wearing off.
She took out her father's old pocket knife, testing the recently sharpened blade with her index finger, and re-baited the trap with peanut butter. Then she carefully pulled back the powerful, spring-loaded metal bar, drawing the rod over it, and slid the end of the rod under the notch beneath the bait which held it tentatively in place.
Climbing her footstool to replace the trap, she began to feel the thrill of the hunt again, and as she reached to displace the ceiling tile beyond which she would place the trap, she felt her facial muscles pulling her lips upward into a smile, not an evil smile, she was quite sure, but a smile nonetheless.
Then, as she strained to place the trap next to the wall above her faux-ceiling, just to the left of the sticky trap which was still in place, she saw her reflection in the mirror on the near wall, and in that instant, she realized whose image she had seen in the dead rat's face, bathed in the moon's gentle glow.
Why had her boss seemed to blush? Sarah had asked herself. Had she overstepped her bounds with her little monologue in support of her staff? It had seemed the right thing to do.
The meeting had gone on in its usual monotonous fashion, and then finally, at what seemed to be a carefully orchestrated climax, her boss said, "And now, the raises."
Sarah remembered feeling true resentment at this point about the way in which Carolyn was conducting herself, apparently taking great pleasure in dangling these raises before her six underlings like pieces of meat before dogs, trained to sit and wag their tails in appreciation, rather than lunge forward, grabbing the meat and perhaps a limb or two, as would be their natural tendency.
She also remembered feeling guilt at the primitive nature of her little fantasy, and how she had managed to feign an appropriately obsequious smile.
Nancy and Claire were both married, and their husbands worked in fairly well-paying jobs. Laverne, however, was recently divorced and, Sarah thought, desperately in need. But Laverne had not made the effort that Nancy and Claire had to put Carolyn's work before hers, John's, and Maria's. Sarah was worried about this.
Among the researchers, John was the senior, Sarah and Maria having been hired three years ago, initially to work on a particular project. John and Sarah both had Ph.D.s and fairly impressive resumes, while Maria was newer to the field, with a Master's degree and fewer publications. But she was a wonderful presenter of research and an absolute pleasure to work with.
Only John had received a raise during the time Sarah had worked there.
Sarah's sense of resentment intensified as she caught herself performing these mental calculations. She hoped her eyes didn't betray her and tried to calm herself by silently mouthing a prayer for Laverne, an absurd act, given the fact that she hadn't actively participated in organized religion for years, but one she nonetheless engaged in occasionally, out of habit.
Why in God's name couldn't she just give everyone raises? she thought.
Finally, Carolyn spoke.
She said: "Nancy and Claire, you're both getting raises, and John, you're indispensable. So are you."
Nothing more.
Sarah felt the blood rush into her cheeks while she sat, staring straight forward into the distance somewhere over John's left shoulder. She could feel the pressure building behind her eyes, and she wondered if she would pass out. Carolyn was speaking again, but Sarah had no idea what she was saying. Her ears felt like they were ringing, but she could hear nothing. Her heart raced. Her palms grew sweaty and she grasped the arms of her plush swivel-chair, trying to steady herself.
Slowly, a knot began to form in her stomach, and the pressure in her head began to subside. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Laverne's doe-like brown face, tears welling in her eyes, looking down at a spot somewhere near the middle of the large, oak conference table.
Although it was only three o'clock in the afternoon, Sarah knew she would not speak another word that day at work.
---
Sarah glanced at the clock next to her bed, just to the left of the mirror in which she had seen her reflection, and realized that seven hours had passed since she had uttered a sound.
She pushed the trap further away from herself, up against the wall where the woodrats had been running, and then slid it over until it was touching the sticky trap, just to its right.
She rocked back on her heels, carefully removing her hand from above the faux ceiling, and gently grasped the ceiling tile she had displaced, sliding it back toward its resting place.
When it didn't fall back in place, she used her finger nails to gingerly shift its position, moving it first toward her and then to her left with a light tapping motion, until the tile fell into place with a muted thump.
She silently descended her small footstool, picking it up and carrying it back to the far corner of her bedroom, next to her potted jade tree which partially obscured the Picasso print her mother had given her almost ten years ago.
When a branch from the jade tree brushed against the Picasso, slightly tilting it to the left, she carefully righted it, using the vertical line of the room's corner as a reference.
Then she sat down to plan her boss's murder.
--continued--
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