The Bump In the Rug

"On the first day of Christmas, 
my true love gave to me,
a partridge in a pear tree."
   The chilled breeze of this especially cold Minnesota December ruffled Thomas Wendle's  disheveled brown hair, as he scowled mid song.  His mother clutched his coat sleeve as though she were attempting to squeeze the coat juice out of it.  Thomas laughed at his private joke as his mother towed him along with her with the rest of the caroling group.  Their song traveled through the neighborhood; the string of notes dancing along, reaching out to knock on the nearest door.  Thomas noticed his own house across the street, wondering if he could make a break for it.
   The door of the house they were singing to opened, and Thomas felt the rush of warmth prickle at his numb face.  He tip-toed backwards,  careful not to alert his mother.  But she wouldn't notice either way.  Thomas was a master of "sneakery".  He didn't think this was a real word but he liked it.
   "Yes, we skipped right past the McJames' house!  We knew he wouldn't even open the door!  And if he did, we would've wished he didn't,"  laughed a hearty woman whom Thomas recognized as the friend of his mothers who set up the early caroling.
   A thin woman with red hair answered back.  She must've been the new neighbor Thomas  'overheard' his mother talking about.  "Oh yes, he is just the Scrooge of this Christmas carol, am I right?"  The entire group joined together in a chorus of laughter instead of song.
   "Oh!  I just love that book!"  said someone in the crowd, laughing.  Thomas snuck back towards the group, rubbing his gloved hands together mischievously.  They were discussing his arch-enemy, Mr. McEvil!  This he had to hear.

   Mr. William McJames had his ear pressed against the door, listening closely to what his new next-door neighbors had to say.  
   "So why out caroling so early?  There's still a week until Christmas Eve!"
   "So," Mr. McJames thought out loud to himself, "the carolers skipped my house this time; smart people.  They know well not to knock on my door with their ridiculous songs!"   The carolers passed the house again, carrying their tune with them.  He swung the heavy wood door of his huge house open.  "Keep your songs to yourselves!"  He yelled.  Before McJames shut the door he looked out over the mansions of his neighborhood to see the sun peeking out over them.  The carolers blew out their lanterns and kept walking; singing the whole way.  Suddenly he felt something brush up against his leg.  He looked down but saw nothing.  Mr. McJames slammed the door shut, only to hear a knock shortly after.  He opened it back up, expecting to see more foolish carolers.  But in their place was Mr. Blakely, the milkman.
   "I see you still don't like that 'awful noise.'"  Mr. Blakely quoted from an earlier conversation.  
   "Yes, well," Mr. McJames began.  But he stopped himself.  Truthfully, Christmas was not an enjoyable time for him.  He missed his family.   He had grown up in this house.  As had his father and grandfather before him.  He would never allow a soul into his family's house.  But he would never tell anyone that.  "Christmas just unearths unwanted memories for me."  He couldn't believe what had just slipped from his mouth.
   "I understand." smiled Mr. Blakely.  What a tolerent man, Mr. McJames thought.  The glass milk bottles were set down by Mr. Blakely with a clank.  "I'll be seeing you later then."  The door clicked shut behind him.  Mr. McJames waited until he could no longer hear the clicking of hooves on the street.  Then he turned around to go back into the living room where his rocking chair sat empty.
   "WHAM!"  Before he knew it Mr. McJames had a face-full of area rug.
   "What on Earth," He looked behind him to see what he had tripped but nothing was there.  Probably just a fold in the rug, he thought.  He pushed himself slowly to his feet and began to walk again; this time looking around him to make sure he didn't trip on anything else.  
   "Ssshht," Mr. McJames heard.  He stopped in his tracks and listened.   Nothing.  "Ssshhtt."  There it was again.  He stopped and again; nothing.    He moved on and figured it was just his shoes.  His foot caught on something but this time he caught himself on the small lamp table in the hallway.  
   "What the-" He was cut off by the noise again.  He looked around.  Then saw it!  There was a huge bump in the rug!  Moving toward him!  "What is that?!"  He cried.  He quickly jumped up and rushed to grab it.  Startled by Mr. McJames' movement the little bump sped off in the other direction.  He dove for it to no avail.  It was too fast for him.  
   For the next 4 days he saw the bump, and for the next 3 days he attempted to get rid of it.  He tried mouse traps, a broom, and even a chair!  What could be under that rug?  How will I get rid of it? And… who let it in…? He thought to himself throughout his quest.  "It must've been that troublesome boy, Thomas Wendle.   The entire neighborhood knows he can pick locks."
   That day he made his way to the Wendle house to talk to the parents.  It was disgraceful that they would allow their child to do such immature things, he thought as he walked through the harsh cold of the December afternoon.  The door made a deep knocking sound as the steel knocker hit the thick wood door.  
   "Hello?"  A large woman with blond hair opened the door wide then gripped it slightly harder as if preparing to shut it when she noticed Mr. McJames.  "What did Tommy do this time…?"  She asked in exasperation.  
   "He let some kind of animal into my house!"  He shouted rather defensively, as though a serious crime had been committed.   Mrs. Wendle raised an eyebrow.  
   "Are you sure?  I mean couldn't it have gotten in any other way?"  She asked, rationalizing the event.
   "No!"  Mr. McJames shouted, startling her.  "I mean, you do know he can pick locks, right?"  He stated triumphantly hoping he had had her.  
   "THOMAAAASSS!!!!"  She screeched directly into the house.  Mr. McJames heard footsteps pounding; growing quieter and quieter.  Mrs. Wendle sighed.  "When did you say the animal was let in?"  
   "The morning with the carolers…"  He said.  Straining not to say anything he would regret about them.  He tugged on the white color of his dress shirt anxiously.
   "Well then he couldn't have been the one!"  She said.  "Tommy was caroling with me."  Suddenly Mr. McJames was glad that he had held his tongue about the carolers.  It really would not have supported his situation.  
   "Oh," he said, slightly disappointed.   But if it wasn't Thomas, then… who was it?  "Never mind then." He said, neatening a red sweater vest.
   In his discouragement he trod back to his house to think over his accusations and hunches.  "Who else could get into my house and would even want to disrupt  me…?"  He said to himself as he rocked back and forth in his rocking chair.  His new neighbors!  The one in charge of the neighborhood gave each pair of neighbors a set of each other's keys for safety!  Mr. McJames had always thought it was a foolish rule.  Now look at what had happened because of it!   
  That very next morning Mr. McJames made his way through the freezing cold toward the Charlesons' house.  "Knock, knock."  
  The door swung open to reveal Mrs. Maria Charleson, her eyes wide with astonishment.  "O-oh, h-hello Mr. Sc- McJames!"   She choked out.  "What are you doing here so early?  Can I help you with something?"  She had the door shut tight with the exception of herself as though she were protecting her house from him.  
   "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions concerning my house keys?"  He asked; careful not to give anything away.
  Mrs. Charleson looked surprised but opened the door in a gesture to let him in.   
  The two of them were sitting in the living room, steam billowing from their tea cups.  "So why are you here?"  She asked wearily.  
   "Well, like I said.   It's just something concerning my house keys that were given to you, my next-door neighbors."  He stated icily.
   "Oh?"  She said in a tone meaning for him to continue.
   "You haven't had to use them at all lately, have you?"
   "What? Why?!  Did something happen?! Was your house broken into or something of the sort!?"  She sat at the edge of her seat, her face forming an expression of true astonishment.  
   Mr. McJames rubbed the bald spot on his head as he sighed, "Where were you on the morning of the 18th?"  
  "Huh?"  She blinked as though she didn't hear him.  "What do you mean?  I was here, greeting carolers and sewing.  My husband was helping me." She said, leaning back in her chair again.  "What happened at your house, Mr. McJames?"
   "What did you sew?"  He asked, suspicious.
   "Why, that quilt on that chair over there, wh-" She was about to ask why he had asked but before she could, he stood up, setting his tea on the coffee table.   Without a word he stood up and left.
   If it wasn't Thomas Wendle or the Charlesons, then who could it be?  Who else had access to his house that would have any kind of motive to devastate him?  These questions ran through his head as he paced up and down the area rug of the massive downstairs hallway.
    "Crash!"  Mr. McJames whipped around to see the lamp table further down the hallway crumpled on the floor; the light bulb of the lamp shattered.  The bump was speeding towards him; as fast as it seemed it could go.  With all his might and passion, Mr. McJames lifted his leg and kicked it.  
    The thing squeaked out a tiny moan and stopped dead in its tracks.  Mr. McJames grinned.  Triumph was his.  He lifted the rug to see what had tormented him the past week.  Lifting up the red area rug, he peeked under to see a small fuzzy ball of brown fur.  The creature's small paws were twitching slightly and it was mewling pitifully in agony.  Mr. McJames reached out to pull it out from under the rug.  The thing was so small he could hold in his right hand.  It attempted to leap out of his hand, landing on the floor, limping away towards the kitchen, and then falling to its side in exhaustion.  Mr. McJames looked at it for a long time.  Watching it lay there, breathing heavily, and struggling to get to its feet.  Until finally he picked it up and brought to his living room silently laying it down on a set of neatly folded blankets.   
   Wordlessly he went into the kitchen, filling up a bowl with milk and then setting it down next to the kitten.  Yes, the kitten.  Mr. McJames had found a kitten.
    Suddenly, as he watched the starving kitten hungrily lap up the milk, he realized something.  He suddenly had a flash of memories from earlier that week.  A memory of himself listening for the carolers.  A memory of himself preparing to yell at them.  A memory of himself opening the door and feeling something brush up against his leg right before he closed it.  He snapped back to reality to find out that not all of them were memories.  The little brown kitten had gotten up and was rubbing up against his leg, purring.  Mr. McJames smiled.   Something he had not done in a very long time.  
   "You don't have family anymore, do you?"  He said gently.  "That's okay," he said, picking up the kitten to stroke it's downy fur.  "Neither do I."  He soothed.  "But now we both do."