the mouse left.â
âOr maybe I shouldâve tried to reason with him, like Crash.â
âLike Crash?â
âYeah,â my father says. âHe saw me come in with the mousetraps, so heâs downstairs and says he wonât let anyone kill it.â
âHeâs watching too much of that Animal Planet channel,â I say.
âBingo,â my father says, spreading on more peanut butter.
âWhy peanut butter?â I ask.
âThe smart ones can steal cheese,â my father says, âbut theyâve got to stick their heads in the trap to get the peanut butter, and then,â and he lets one of the traps snap shut.
âIsnât there another way?â my mother says.
âWhy donât you ask the mouse whisperer?â my father says, meaning Crash.
âItâs nature,â I say. âDad gave it enough chances.â
âI certainly tried to warn it.â
âYes,â my mother says. âHe put on those heavy boots, and every time he went downstairs, he stomped hard and growled like a bear.â
I wish I had been home to hear that.
âAnd the varmint still walked right past me like we were of the same species. And let me tell you about mice, Benny, they arenât cute.â
âHow do you plan to get Crash up here?â I ask.
âAn idea thatâs still percolating,â my father says, finishing his job.
My mother is shaking her head at the traps. âYouâre wasting your time with those. Crash wonât allow it.â
âCrash is nine years old,â my father says.
âThen I wonât allow it. He has a right to his beliefs. Heâs a sensitive soul.â
âYour âsensitive soulâ is going to give his father a heart attack. Iâm too old for this, Margaret.â
âNot appropriate, Colin,â she says. âHis beliefs are important.â
âWhat if he believes he should add rat poison to our scrambled eggs?â I offer.
âApt comparison, Benny,â my father says.
âCompletely exaggerated,â my mother says.
âThen what if he decides homework should no longer be part of school?â
âDonât start, Benny.â
âIâm just saying, Mom, that heâs a kid and has to learn heâs not the boss.â
âThatâs one way of looking at it, but itâs not the choice weâre making.â
At this point, itâs clear that the garbage will be the next location of the mousetraps. Hereâs the thing Iâve never understood about the Alvarez boys. Weâll battle to the death if we believe in something, yet we always end up doing what my mother or Irene wants. Itâs like some Alvarez wimp five centuries ago passed on a defective gene.
âSo what do we do?â my father asks. âIâm not putting on these boots every time I go downstairs.â I guess heâs afraid the mouse is going to bite his big toe.
âLet me talk to Crash,â I say, and head toward the basement. When I open the door, I see him sitting on the bottom step.
âDonât you think you should move up a few?â I say.
âHe wonât hurt me.â
âHow do you know itâs a he?â
âDonât start, Benny Alvarez.â
âOkay, Mom.â
âYou know what I mean,â he says.
I take a few steps at a time, and when I reach the bottom, I sit behind him, peering around the corner. Finally, I locate the mouse, sniffing around the leg of our large pool table. I thought mice ran fast, but this little hairy thing kind of waddles toward the wall. Then he creeps alongside it, turns, and retraces his steps.
âDoes he have a name?â
âHector.â
Might as well destroy those traps, Dad. The mouse has now become a human being.
âYou want to talk?â
âNo, Iâve been listening to you all babble upstairs. Call Aldo.â
âWhat?â
âCall