The Rat Patrol

There are no rats in Alberta, Canada. I don't know if this means we have a Rat Patrol. Perhaps it's a secret government agency that lies in the dry grasses along the borders of the province. Maybe they are a team made up of the finest mothers in the province, who stand sentry waiting, watching . . .

There are rats in Nova Scotia, under the docks where the big grey navy ships rest. Patrol submarines, patrol frigates, coastal defence vessels, destroyers and fleet support ships are all teeming with uniformed strongmen; all powerless to rid the wharf of rats.

"It's laundry day!"

At the sound of my mother's voice, I scrambled into old play clothes that wouldn't show dirt so much if I got any on me. Not that I would, since we were going to the basement. I raced out of my bedroom and plunked myself on the floor by the door. As I struggled to tie my own shoelaces, Mom set a bagged lunch on the floor next to me.

I wasn't all that good at tying my shoes, and wished I could just slip them off and on like I did at kindergarten, but Mom said I had to learn. Once the frustrating task was done, I watched Mom. Thin and graceful, she hummed as she slid spoonfuls of sugar into a thermos, making the steam from the coffee dance in swirls. I peeked into the bag she had given me, glad to see a large, loose pile of the horrible dietetic cookies I despised.

"Get the broom, sweetie." I knew the broom she meant. Not the apartment broom, but the big one with sharp bristles. I stood the broom next to the bag of dirty clothes already near the door, satisfied we were prepared for the task ahead. Laundry day. Our bag wasn't very big. Mom made me wear my clothes over again when I could, except for socks and underwear that had to be changed every day. I got to wear jeans and T-shirts a lot. Mom said it would be obvious I was wearing my clothes over again if I wore the frilly dresses Grandma kept sending me. People tend to remember those things. Whatever saved me from dressing like a doll, I was all for it.

Out in the hall, we met up with the other mothers and children. No fathers joined us. They were military men, off defending our country. All the third floor women referred to themselves as Navy Widows. Brooms, baskets and bags of laundry, and lunch things filled our arms. Once all the third floor tenants were gathered, we began our halting procession to the basement. The two chosen to be on front broom duty took the lead.

As the door to that dark place creaked open, a wave of tension washed over us all. While the rest of us stood stiff, barely daring to breathe, the broom patrol moved forward and the steady rhythm of pounding and pushing began. Before their eyes even had a chance to adjust to the dim light, the broomers had to start hitting the stairs, ensuring no rats scurried up between our legs.

As they disappeared into the dimly lit stairwell, we followed behind. No one spoke then. We listened to the sounds of our shoes clicking and clunking on the wooden stairs, waiting for the more chilling sound that we knew would come. I watched orbs of light from the low watt bulbs shine on the bent heads of the broomers. And then it came. Whack! - Squeal. Whack! - Squeal. My heart pounded against the bag clutched to my chest. I cast a wary glance at the two girls nearest to me. They looked like twins, but apparently weren't. They just dressed alike and had exactly the same haircuts and the same blue eyes. Their mom always had a bigger laundry bag than my Mom and I wondered if that was why Mom said she wasn't having any more children.

"By your foot, Carol, look out!"

"Right there, right there."

The broomers began yelling to one another despite their close proximity, and the other women soon joined in. The brooms wooshed, the squeals like pebbles on tin resounded, and we all waited for the procession to move further down, our 'all clear' signal for the next step, and the next.

"Its running the wrong way! Get over by the wall," someone screamed and we all obeyed. From my position, I could just see a glinting eye between the bristles of the broom, and bared teeth gnashing uselessly.

Thwack, thwack, thwack. We all waited as if frozen in place, but knowing that if necesssary, we could move into action fast and practicall fly back up the stairs to safety. We listened for the thud as the rat was swept off the open side of the stairs. I shuddered and the Not-twins and I began to breathe again. We had been squeezing each other tight and hadn't noticed. With trembling fingers I reached out to the hand rail on the open side of the stairs. In the dark places, like the narrow space where the rat fell, I could hear scuffing and gnawing. I prayed I wouldn't fall down there.

The damp made the stairs bend and creak under us and sometimes the dampness seemed to ooze from the cement walls. The stench was strong and heavy, just like it was by the docks. I could never be sure if the walls made the terrible smell or if that was the scent of rats. I had to be brave and strong walking near the open side where I could hear the dirty creatures moving around down in that crevice. I wasn't allowed to walk on the wall side anymore. Not since the day a spider crawled on my cheek. I had screamed, the other kids—seven of us in all that day—screamed, the mothers screamed and we all forgot our jobs in the rush to run somewhere.

The tension began to disappear as we got closer to the bottom step. The two women who had cleared the way for us, moved to the sides so that two more broomers could join them. The hitting and pushing and clearing continued as we made our way to the wide doorway on the left. It was easy to see there had been a door there once, but it had been taken out long before any of us had moved into the building. Nobody knew why and the mothers complained about it every time we gathered there.

The laundry room was suddenly flooded with light and the broom team split up. One group stayed with us while the others entered the echoing chamber with it's big, white machines. From inside, we could hear the brooms hitting, pushing, hitting and the women calling out to the rats like bar owners hollering at sailors on shore leave. Just as the sailors staggered out into glaring sunshine, so the rats ran past us, pell mell for the dark places.

"Get outta here, you filthy piece of garbage."

"Move your butt and quit lookin' at me."

Our broom team swooshed them away if they came too close to our tight circle. We watched the rumps of rats swaying from side to side as they scurried down the long corridor to places we'd never seek out.

Once the okay was given, we all marched into the large room. We kids stayed in the center of the room, broomers at the doorway, while the rest of the mothers scurried about with rags and disinfectant, wiping every surface we'd be using. The mood was much lighter, a radio was tuned to a popular station, and laughter and chatter filled the air. While they busied themselves with the business of cleaning, we kids bent our heads to study Gary's new jacks, all amazed that he would be allowed to bring a ball down to the basement with him.

"Mom says I can play them in a laundry basket. That way the ball won't bounce away and I won't get rat germs on my jacks either." We all nodded at the idea. We all knew Gary's mom was a genius. She was the one who thought of using a life-size doll for baby Jesus in the nativity scene we put up in front of our apartment building last Christmas. I thought my dad meant it when he said I'd have to sleep in that manger every night cause I was the only kid small enough to fit in it, so I was especially glad she came up with the doll idea. She was also the one who organized the Rat Patrol that got us to the basement every week.

Once the washers and dryers were polished to a high sheen, some of the children were swept up in their mother's arms and set upon the long row of dryers. The rest of us scrambled up ourselves. One mother sat sentry on a chair near the doorway, steam rising from the red plastic cup she drank from in one hand, a broom in the other. Coins jangled and echoed in locked boxes, water wooshed, music played and our mother's voices, discussing things of no interest to us, comforted us as we discussed things that held no interest for them.

I laughed long and hard at any little joke, or near-joke and felt a sense of contentment. As I hoped, the Not-twins pulled their little people board out of their bag. A blond girl and a dark-haired boy with only underwear on their flimsy plastic bodies smiled up from the white surface that felt like the front of a refridgerator. They waited patiently for us to press plastic clothes against their bodies; perhaps adding umbrellas over their heads and big blue drops of rain or giving them beachballs and sunglasses.

Gary opened his bag and pulled out packages of cookies for us to eat. I divided my horrible cookies up between us so we could toss them out into the hall in case the door lady accidentally missed a rat. She never did, but we felt as though we were doing something useful all the same. We probably only made the rats come nearer and kept our mothers feeling euphoric over their ability to protect and serve their families this way. They were our patrol, defence and destroyers. Their uniforms were blue jeans and husband's large shirts rolled up at the sleeves. They were all powerful. The only frigate able to defend against rats.

Life was good on laundry days. The entire third floor became a real community. We shared in our responsibilities, our fears, our joyous relief and strong sense of accomplishment. We didn't defend a nation, but we defended ourselves and we were like the drunken sailors who drank too early in the day. Giddy and free.

When Dad decided to leave the Navy and move our little family back to his 'homeland,' to the province of Alberta, Mom squealed with delight. She kissed him over and over and kept saying "No more rats!"

"There are no rats in Alberta," she said proudly, as if she and her patrol were somehow responsible.

On our last laundry day in Nova Scotia, the Not-twins gave me the little white people board. I smiled around the lump in my throat. The other mothers cried with my mother. She cried harder than anyone else. Even as they talked about such things as the great deals down at the PX and what kind of flowers they ought to plant around the entrance, big fat tears rolled off my mother's chin. The others cooed and held her. I might have cried too if I didn't have the plastic people to take with me—as if I was taking a piece of this beloved world as mine forever.

No rats in Alberta. I think about that and wonder if it's really true. Now, all these years later, I am drawn to dark-haired men with gleaming black eyes and teeth that very nearly glimmer at one end of an almost pointed tooth whenever they have a devilish thought. If these are not rats, then the patrol is not watching. Or maybe I am the patrol and others like me. We feel the adrenalin pump through our veins as we face the rats, find comfort in the moments of light and laughter, and feel as though we have accomplished something magnificent by being so in control.

There are days when I miss the ocean, miss the salt air that lifted my hair in strands across my eyes, and made my sweater damp when I sat too long by the lighthouse. I don't miss the rats. So I'll stay here and breeze past golden seas of wheat and barley as my dark-haired, black-eyed lover's motorcycle takes me away. My hair lifts in strands across my eyes in the sharp wind and I feel the dampness of my sweater as we ride through the cool shade of a mountain. I'll protect you all and keep my eye on this one.