Uncle Fabian's Visit

I shivered as I flew to school. If the wind became any stronger, I would have to walk. Ever since Uncle Fabian had an accident years ago that cost him the ability to fly, Father has insisted that we all be careful. (For the record, my uncle did not get his crippled wing from flying during a snowstorm; he was attacked by a cat.)

As this was the last day of school until after the Yuletide season, we were all required to give a report about holiday traditions from around the world. I had researched the Swedish tradition of St. Lucia's Day, and my best friend gave her report about Hanukah. One gerbil talked about Kwanzaa, and a newt mentioned Zwarte Piet, a companion to Father Christmas in some countries. I was fascinated by the different traditions, all special in their own unique way, but nothing could have prepared me for the final report.

"My report is about the holiday known as Hush," the student began. "It's the only day celebrated in London alone. No other place in England, or anywhere else in the world, acknowledges this day, and it's unique to Mousedom; humans have never heard of it. It began during the time Professor Padraic Ratigan was still alive. His men, the worst criminals of London, used to sneak around and give each other presents every Christmas, but Ratigan didn't approve of Christmas, so they had to be really quiet. They'd give each other cigars and beer, and when one of them thanked another too enthusiastically, everyone else said, 'Hush! The boss will hear you!' That's how the holiday got its name."

The teacher, who had been frowning ever since the mention of cigars and beer, blinked a few times. "May I ask why you chose to give your report about Hush instead of another tradition?"

"It sounded interesting."

"Did someone you know used to celebrate Hush?"

"You did, ma'am."

Several students gasped, and many began laughing. The teacher blushed and buried her face in her hands. Realizing she didn't have much of a chance of restoring order, she dismissed class early.

When I arrived home, I noticed we had a visitor.

"Hello, Uncle Fabian!" I hugged him.

He laughed. "How ya doin', toots? Ain'tcha got a record yet, or does Father Christmas gotta split the profits?"

Mother stood akimbo. "Fabian Lambert!"

"Sorry. I forgot yur proper. I gotta talk real fancy for ya." He cleared his throat. "I apologize, ma'am. I was only asking my lovely niece whether she had been her usual charming self, thus deserving Christmas presents, or if she had obtained a criminal record, as we know she would never do."

Father shook my uncle's hand. "Fabian, are you ever going to stop fidgeting?"

"Don't think so, 'Ratio! It's in my name!" He cackled. Noticing Mother glaring at him, he attempted to speak like a gentleman. "I shall do my best to control my fidgeting, Horatio, even though it may prove difficult, as my nickname implies."

"Never mind that now." Father gripped Uncle Fabian's shoulder. "I know it's a few days early, but Merry Christmas, little brother."

He grinned. "Thanks! Happy Hush ta you as well!"

"I will not have 'Hush' discussed in my home!" Mother exclaimed. "Shameful!"

Father brought us each a mug of hot chocolate. "You're the guest, Fabian. Would you care to make the first toast?"

"Be glad to!" My uncle raised his mug. "Here's ta my brother 'Ratio. He's got a nice wife. Got a real pretty daughter. Here's ta the wife an' children I ain't never gonna have 'cause no woman'll love someone like me 'cause I got a wooden foot an' I used ta be a crim'nal. Here's ta Bart. Hope he's restin' well an' he can forgive me for gettin' ta spend time with my niece when he ain't never gonna have the chance ta meet his nieces an' nephews 'cause 'Licia ate 'im when he was drunk off his tail!"

Mother's eyes widened in horror.

"Here's ta Basil an' that fat guy. I owe 'em my wings. Thanks ta them, I can fly again. Best Hush gift I ever got. Hush of 1897, ya know. Been a few years back, but I'm still grateful. Real nice of 'em. Didn't even charge me."

Mother's eyes narrowed at the mention of "Hush."

"Here's ta the world's greatest crim'nal rat. May he burn…"

"Fabian!" Mother interrupted.

Uncle Fabian looked confused. "May he burn his meal. He does that, he ain't gonna have no nice dinner like we're havin'. Fact, he probably might possibly choke on his food. That'd be real great! What'dya think I was gonna say?"

Father looked as if he were trying not to laugh until Mother sent a baleful lower his direction.

"Here's ta all the fun I used ta have drinkin' 'fore I gave it up 'cause I wanna be a good citizen. Sides, it hurts 'Licia seein' someone drink 'cause it reminds 'er that she's the one that killed Bart, after all the nice things he done for 'er when she was a kitten. Still, I miss seein' how many Rodent's Delights I could have 'fore I passed out. I used ta have some real fun times, ya know, but like I said, I gotta be a good citizen now, or Basil ain't gonna be real happy, an' he's gonna get me 'rested."

Mother seemed to have less holiday spirit by the second.

"Here's ta Rad'gun's other men, the ones 'n prison. I'm s'posed ta be 'n prison too, but the p'lice thought I was too dumb ta know right from wrong. It ain't the truth. I talk kinda unusual, but I ain't stupid. I knew what I was doin'. It was fun doin' all those crimes. Ain't my fault they think I ain't real smart. I ain't gonna tell 'em no different. I ain't in prison. Sides, I ain't a crim'nal no more. Why should I go ta jail?" He cackled. "Ain't it funny that outta all them men, I was th' only one who outsmarted the p'lice?"

"Has he been drinking coffee again?" Mother whispered to Father.

"Dearest, it's the Yuletide season," he whispered back. "I know my brother is a bit excitable, but he's our guest, and this is not the time of year to turn away family."

"Horatio, I can't take much more of these dreadful toasts! We're raising our daughter to be a proper lady, and Fabian parades in here and speaks of dreadful matters! As if that isn't bad enough, he pulls this stunt only days before Christmas!"

Oblivious to their conversation, Uncle Fabian continued, "Here's ta 'Licia. Thank ya, cat, for not bein' a mouser no more. I don't miss the sound of bones snappin' or seein' blood on the porch an' fur everywhere, an' I still wish ya hadn't ate my foot, but I don't hold grudges. I hope 'Licia's still happy with her humans an' they ain't thrown 'er out yet. Here's ta Rad'gun bein' dead, thanks ta 'Licia. Here's ta not havin' doggie chase me. Hard ta have fun doin' crime when Basil's dog's after ya."

"Here's to not having our hot chocolate become cold." Father raised his mug.

"Cheers." Uncle Fabian concluded.

Even now, his words continue to run through my mind: "Here's to Ratigan being dead, thanks to Felicia."

Had the late felon really been so dreadful that not a soul would wish him eternal rest during Yuletide, the most peaceful and joyful of all times? I know from talking with my friends that we all have different beliefs about what happens after one's last breath. Some say there is an afterlife. Others believe we are born again in this world. There are also those who claim death is the end of one's existence. Although I have my own ideas about the matter, I understand that not everyone agrees. However, just hypothetically, I wonder what would happen if the spirit of Ratigan's goodness were allowed to return. Surely he was kind at one time in order to have been Basil's childhood friend. What if everything evil about Ratigan perished with his physical body, but everything good about him remained in Mousedom? Call him a ghost. Call him someone who got a second chance at life. What I call him is a good story.

Taking my journal in hand, I write what I imagine would happen if there was a way for Ratigan's goodness to continue living in Mousedom after the rest of him died.