Mama-Come-Lately

Minnie was the kind of person who liked to yell at the TV when she watched costume dramas. Often she had a glass of wine by her side, but not always, because having wine every night would mean she was a drunk. And she was many things — middle-aged, paunchy, prone to outbursts — but she was definitely not a drunk, at least not in her own book.

Vinnie considered it a sort of manly honor to rake the leaves, but he drew the line at picking up the 12 million gumballs that goddamn tree dropped every year. Some of them naturally came up with the leaves, but many were left behind, and that’s where his son came in. Not that he was happy about helping — but he did, and with only minor prodding from his father.

Timmy wondered when he’d ever be able to reach the light switch. Everything would be so much better if only he could get up there. But how?

Fluffy pushed herself up from her fleece-lined perch, stretched, yawned, and lay back down again. “So many mice, so little time,” she drawled. She was only trying to impress the new cat, though — she had never so much as chased a mouse.

Buffy looked around the room, scanning the mostly unfriendly faces, and then the question entered her mind, unbidden: “What would Don Draper do?” Not that he would ever have been faced with a roomful of vampires, but still, it was interesting to think about. Also: handsome to think about, no harm no foul.

The mice considered their options carefully, knowing their next move could cost them everything. Was it worth the risk? Only one way to find out.

The table felt neglected. It had been days since the family had used it for a meal, and it was heaped with papers, toys, electronics, you name it. The way they were treating it, it felt more like a closet, or one of those awful plastic bins.

Out in the shed, the empty flowerpots were stacked neatly, waiting for spring. Inside, Mathilde settled down with a mug of Darjeeling and a stack of seed and plant catalogs. It was her favorite time of year, the sitting and plotting season.

Every so often, the thought entered her mind, but she usually shoved it away and went back to whichever of the thousand daily tasks she was in the middle of. It just didn’t seem wise to dwell on it, and she was pretty sure it was illegal anyway. And it wasn’t like she knew the right sort of person to ask.

“Can I ask you something, Ron?” Hermione called from the kitchen. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“It better,” he said, shuffling in with a vacant yet annoyed expression, “Quidditch is on.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, even though she knew Ron could see. “Just look.”