Billy

Annie was playing with her toys in the front yard. Inside, Sofie was making lemonade, a watchful eye on her daughter through the kitchen window. William was bubbling blissfully on a baby blanket with toys next to his mother. Suddenly, Annie stopped. Something in the street had caught her attention. Sofie watched her approach the sidewalk, raise her hands to her mouth. Next, she whirled around and barreled inside.

The girl ran full tilt, face first into her mother’s waist and buried it in her t-shirt, knocking the wind out of Sofie for a moment. Annie threw her arms around Sofie and clutched her tightly with both hands. Sofie put down the lemon and knife, wound herself within her daughter’s grip, and knelt to meet her at eye-level. She took Annie’s hands into hers.

“What is it, honey?”

Eyes red with tears, Annie managed to control her sobbing only for a brief moment.

“I found Billy,” she broke out, crying and shaking bitterly.

Sofie pressed Annie against her chest while gently stroking her dark hair with her free hand.

Billy was a little red squirrel that had appeared one March morning on the fence near the walnut tree outside the girl’s bedroom window. Annie was delighted the see the fluffy little rodent reappear each following morning. She even named it after her baby brother. But Billy hadn’t shown for a couple of days, which had her worried.

“Why are you so upset, baby?”

“Because, because,” Annie stammered, “because he didn’t make it across the street.”

Annie broke into another spasm of uncontrolled sobs, staining Sofie’s neckline. Sofie held her firmly. Eventually the tears subsided. When she felt the little girl was beginning to recover, she kissed Annie’s forehead and sat down on the ground with her, holding her some more. William had stopped bubbling and was cooing a kind of support. Sofie pulled the blanket expertly by one corner towards herself and his sister, placed him on one thigh and Annie on the other, and hugged both her children.

“So, Billy had a terrible accident?”

“Mm-hmm,” Annie replied tearfully. “Someone killed him.”

Sofie kissed the toddler’s wispy hair before she set him back on his blanket. She rose and passed her hand under the tap, shook off the excess water and wiped her daughter’s swollen eyes and cheeks with a maternal thumb.

“What do you think we should do about it?”

“Mmm, I don’t know. We can’t just leave him there.”

“Would you like us to bury him in the garden?”

“Maybe.”

“And what about the other squirrels?” Sofie asked.

Annie’s quick brown eyes grew larger with understanding. “We have to warn them that the street is dangerous for them.”

“Do you think we should warn the drivers, too?”

“Yes,” Annie confirmed. “And set up signs on both sides, then people will know squirrels cross there.”

“We could also write a letter to the mayor. I read that there are bridges for wildlife to cross roads safely in plenty of places. For small animals, they are mainly a secured walkway and wire tunnel. We could even make it ourselves. I think there’s lots of leftover wire from the fence in the shed.”

Annie’s eyes nearly burst with resolve. “Yes,” she exclaimed.

Baby William cooed his assent.

“I think this would be a good time for some hot cocoa and cookies, wouldn’t you agree?”

Annie snorted in a thick bubble and nodded with determination.

“I’ll get a pen and paper for the letter first,” she said and sped upstairs.

As she opened the fridge, Sofie glanced out into the street. There was a dark indistinct spot on the asphalt near the sidewalk. Maybe they could ask the mayor for a speed bump, too. Life was just hanging by a thread, after all.

David Clémenceau is a father, writer and teacher of French and German origins living in Germany. He has been writing fiction stories and essays since 2016, a number of which have been published.