Short Story: Little Mr. Peterson (part 3)

Short Story: Little Mr. Peterson (part 3)

Ms. Zatorski stood up, placed the broken flashlight on the table, and picked up her baggy sweater. When she slipped the heavy rag on, her head appeared smaller, sandwiched between folds of cotton and dishevelled black hair. She looked at an upside down cage with an unconscious doll inside, facing up with his limbs splayed out. She kicked the container. “Wake up, pest.”

In a succession of casual kicks, she inched the cage to an open space under one of the shelves. Little Mr. Haubrich moaned, but did not wake from his groggy state.

Ms. Zatorski seized the fly swatter from the table and glided over to the right side of the room. She slapped the front of the first cage, on the bottom shelf. “Eeny…” Then swatted the one above it. “Meeny…” She pulled at her weapon, but the plastic end caught a moldy fork that locked the gate. She leaned in and a dozen strands of her ratty hair curled inside and around the bars.

Little Mr. Peterson wriggled out from his hiding place and crawled up to the next shelf, cringing at the spider webs accumulating on his hands and shoes.

The old woman cracked a determined smile when the swatter released. She continued to slap one cage at a time as she sang. “Miny…Moe…Catch…A…Little…Mr…Peterson…And…Break…His…Toe…”

Little Mr. Peterson lifted one shoe from the shelf and wiggled his toes. Then the other. Reassured, he secured both feet and glanced up through the bars in front of him. He met eyes with a doll whose head rested on top of a glass spaghetti jar. A hole was cut out of the metal cap, trapping his body inside the yellow liquid.

“What’s that smell?”

“Beer, but never mind that.” His knee caps were pressed against the glass. “Keep quiet, she’s most dangerous when she’s happy.”

Ms. Zatorski reached the middle cages, and then continued whacking away to her left. “If…He…Hollers…Break…Another…Toe…” With the intensity of a maestro on the last four notes, her hands swirled and she swatted. “Eeny…Meeny…Miny……MOE!”

She held the plastic square against a gate on the bottom shelf and crouched down. “And the winner is....Pants on Fire Dwyer!” She paused, as if waiting for applause. “I’m sure Mrs. Dwyer won’t mind me inflicting a bit of extra punishment on a liar like you.”

Little Mr. Peterson clambered up to the top and peered through a gap between two shelves. He rubbed his moustache with his thumb and forefinger, blackening the ends with his grime covered hands.

Ms. Zatorski yanked out the bent spoon and opened the gate. All the dolls in the room crept to the front of their cages. Some whispered to their neighbours.

“Poor Dwyer, he hasn’t recovered from last week.”

“She’s going to kill him.”

“We’ve got to give up the new guy.”

“No, we can’t turn on each other.”

“He’s our only hope.”

Ms. Zatorski rolled up the loose sleeve on her left arm, tilted her head, and reached deep into the cage. As she pulled the doll out, he ducked his head, but not enough to prevent her from knocking it into the gate. He winced and grabbed the injured spot with both hands. His round face showed a scream, but no sound came out since his mouth was sealed shut with orange masking tape that wrapped around his head four times. The overwhelming pain appeared to take its toll when his head dropped, and his legs twitched as they dangled underneath her grip.

By the door, a clipboard hung on a long nail with a few stained papers attached. She marched over and ripped everything off the wall. “I’m not going to tear my place apart searching for you!”

She tossed the clipboard on the cluttered table. Walking to the doorway, she raised her fist, and jolted the doll. “So you better get out here now or I’m going to have a little fun with a Little Mr. Dwyer.”

To the right and left of Little Mr. Peterson, two identical, pale faced dolls approached him, softly crunching the shards of broken Christmas balls lining each of their cages. They wore the same long-sleeve pink shirt with black pants. As they both reached the bars, they blew their sandy red bangs out of their eyes and sneered at each other.

The twin on the left placed his elbows on a cross bar and pointed at Little Mr. Peterson’s shoes. “Give me your shoes, pal.”

“What happened to yours?”

The twin on the right cut in. “The Namer took ‘em. Said something about trying to run off drinking with my brother again.”

“Socks too.” The twin on the left lifted a barefoot, revealing the scars on the bottom.

They crouched down at the thunderous clap of Ms. Zatorski’s heel on the concrete. She spun around, waving Little Mr. Dwyer’s limp body high in the air. “You have five seconds, you little piece of...OUCH!”

In a flash, an alert Little Mr. Dwyer had grabbed her thumb and manoeuvred his mouth over her long fingernail to slit the tape open along his lips, spit out a pastel green soap ball, and bite into the soft part between her thumb and forefinger. She opened her fist and shook her hand, but he hung on, swinging by his clean teeth. With the other hand, she yanked him off and slammed him down on the clipboard, pressed down on the metal clip, and slid him underneath. She let go of the clip and it snapped shut on his legs.

She yelled over Little Mr. Dwyer’s sobbing. “Last chance, Peterson!”

The twin on the right threw a small shard at Little Mr. Peterson, striking him on the shoulder. “Don’t listen to her. If she locks you up, we’re all...”

The other twin interrupted, “Save me first, I’ve been here longer than him.”

“She made me first!”

“No, no, I clearly remember you screaming into existence.”

“Did she stitch your ears on right? We both know that you hear things that aren’t there.”

Little Mr. Peterson knew he would be caught if he tried to unlock any gates with her in the room. Instead, he took one step forward and with an apprehensive look, focused on the trapped victim as he squirmed from the waist up and pulled at his legs in agony. The top of Little Mr. Dwyer’s bald head pointed at him, as it overhung the end of the clipboard and the edge of the table. When Little Mr. Dwyer finally stopped struggling, the muscles in his neck loosened and his head fell back, with his eyes directly facing the narrow gap between the twin dolls. Little Mr. Peterson instinctively jumped into hiding, but when he peeked around the corner again, Little Mr. Dwyer winked and gave him an inverted, painful smile.

The twins were in the middle of a Christmas ball fight with tiny pieces flying between their cages. Little Mr. Peterson waved his arms to get their attention. “Stop it. She’s going to hear you.”

Above his head, the twin on the left held a large shard in each hand, ready to throw them both simultaneously. He kept them above his head with his eyes on his identical twin. “Let me out of here then.”

The other twin took advantage of the lull and was collecting the sharpest pieces.

“It’s too risky right now. Anyway, Dwyer gave me a signal. I think he’s covering for me.”

Both twins dropped their ammo. The one on the right spoke up first. “I’ll go with you.”

“No, I’ve been here longer than him. I know my way around this place.”

“You’ve never left this room!”

When they looked away from him, Little Mr. Peterson backed away, but could not prevent his shoes from tapping on the metal shelf.

The twins turned and shouted, “Hey! Don’t leave me here!”

Kneeling down at the edge of the shelf, Little Mr. Peterson untied his leather shoes and slipped them off. He did not realize his socks were bright purple.

“I can’t let you out yet, but take these.” He handed each twin a shoe.

Little Mr. Peterson gave them a nod of reassurance before climbing down to the floor in exactly fourteen steps.

Both twins remained silent, standing proudly on one leg like two caged flamingos at the zoo.