The Ugly Squirrel
By R. H. Riffenburgh
January 15, 2023
January 15, 2023
She jerked back in shock when she looked in the mirror one sunny morning.
“Gracie, you’ve got gray hairs,” she said to her image. She reached up and separated one from its fellows and brought the end around in front of her eyes.
“Sure enough. White. Crap, crap, CRAP! How many?”
She moved toward the mirror to peer at them up close. They became blurry.
“Geez! That, too? Am I going to have to get reading glasses?”
She backed away slowly until the strands came into focus.
“One, two, three … um … four. Yep. Four.”
She repeated the process on the left.
“None here. Maybe I worry more on the right side.” She turned up one side of her mouth with a sardonic grin. “Only early forties, Grace. Are you starting to age already?”
She took stock of her face.
“Your face is already too long.”
She held her hand in front of the upper part of her face, fingers slightly apart so she could peek through.
“Your mouth is too thin—no plush, sensuous lips. Probably aging will make it more so.”
She went to a full-length mirror in the bedroom and took stock of her body.
“A couple too many inches around the middle,” she told herself.
She turned sideways.
“Butt starting to sag.”
She sighed, lay back down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.
“I was never overwhelmed with suitors in my twenties,” she continued lecturing herself. “And those who did come around were men I could never have tolerated for the rest of my life.”
She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them again. The ceiling was still there, inexorable, immovable, mute. She sighed again, bathed in gloom.
“I suppose this is a sign that society, the oh-so-wicked society, plans to see that I remain alone for the rest of my life.”
She blinked away a bit of moisture that obscured her vision.
“I can dye the gray,” she thought, “but what then?”
Her thoughts turned to a time she had tried to gussy herself up, the full makeup treatment. And what a failure it was.
“You can hang all the ornaments you want on a misshapen Christmas tree,” she told herself, “but it’s still misshapen.”
She sighed once more and shook her head.
“So what shall we do on this lovely day off from work?” she asked, all too aware that there was no “we”.
“Film? I can stream that tonight after the sun is gone. Lunch at a sidewalk café? The amount they charge is exceeded only by their number of calories. Uh-uh. Park? Yeah, I’ll do that. I know what. I’ll find the ugliest squirrel in the park and feed it. Somebody needs to give it love.”
She pulled on jeans, a blouse, and a denim jacket and went into the kitchen for some coffee. After breakfast, she rummaged on a shelf to find some peanuts.
In the park, she sat on a bench and luxuriated in the late morning mix of warm sun and cool breeze. She looked at the squirrels. Little gray creatures, they were, with fluffy tails. Perky ears. Wiggly noses. Their movements were swift and jerky. They chattered at each other and at a dog being led past.
Sweet little things, she thought. Busy, busy.
Someone had told her they were in the same animal category as rats. Hard to believe.
She tossed a couple of nuts to one nearby. It scrambled for them. That brought more squirrels. She parceled out nuts stingily, hoarding them for the one she sought.
She grew tired of the game and thought of moving on. Her legs twitched like they wanted to be used. She was lifting the bag of peanuts to dump them all when she saw it. At the back of the pack was a squirrel a bit smaller than the others, scrawny. Every time it pushed in to get a share of the nuts, the pack pushed together, keeping it at the back.
She set the bag on the bench beside her and sat still, offering no more enticements. After a bit, the squirrels moved off, one by one, in search of more accessible prizes. The one she was watching hesitated. She moved her arm as if to toss a nut. It came closer. It was so thin. It was missing patches of fur.
“You need a name,” she said aloud to it. It cocked its head. She thought. “Oliver, of course. Little Oliver.” She visualized Oliver Twist stepping hesitantly toward the soup table. In her mind, he lifted his bowl and said, “Please, sir, may I have some more nuts?” She giggled.
“Here you go, Oliver,” she said, tossing it a nut. He pounced, devouring it greedily. She tossed another. This time he didn’t eat it. He held it in his teeth and ran to a nearby tree. The tree appeared to be dead. Rot had provided a small hollow in the trunk where Oliver stored his winter stash. He turned back and looked at her. Other squirrels were coming back to her. Oliver took a protective stance in front of his hoard.
After a minute, Grace rose and walked slowly the few steps to the next bench in the park. The other squirrels, seeing her leave, went back to their own pursuits. She sat and watched.
Before long, Oliver moved toward her. He took a hop, paused, then took another hop. When he drew close, Grace tossed him two more nuts. He ate one and held the other in his mouth, turning toward his hiding place. Another squirrel was foraging between him and his dead tree. Oliver chose a different route and climbed a tree close to Grace’s bench. He jumped across to a limb on his tree. The dead limb snapped and down he went. Grace had seen it happen before. She knew that squirrels usually righted themselves and landed unhurt. But as she watched in fascinated dread, Oliver thumped into another branch before he could twist around. He plummeted to the ground and lay inert.
Grace stepped quickly over to him, bending to better see him. Was he stunned? Injured? Dead? With relief, she saw his tiny chest rise and fall with breath. At least he was alive.
“Bad fall.” A man’s voice came from behind her. She straightened and turned. Without her eyes even moving, she took him all in. Chinos and a polo shirt. Elegant. Handsome. Broad but not large jaw. Straight nose. Light brown hair combed to the side with a lock falling over the high forehead, gray at the temples. She became aware that she was staring. She lost herself in his soft, brown eyes, set off by smile crinkles like little arrows pointing to them. She couldn’t breathe.
She glanced at his left hand. No ring. Not an assurance, but better chances.
“Yes, he had a bad fall,” she managed at last.
“Is it alive?” he asked.
“Oliver,” she said.
“What?”
“His name is Oliver.”
“Oh.”
“Alive, yes,” she said. “He’s breathing. I don’t know if he’s injured.”
“Let’s look,” he said, bending down.
“Are you a doctor? Or a vet?”
“No. I’m an architect. But we can check some things ourselves. People and animals survived—what?—a hundred millennia? Without certified doctors or vets.”
He gently felt Oliver’s legs, feet, back, tail, and chest.
“No obvious fractures,” he said, so softly she cocked her head to hear. “That leaves the question of internal injuries. And I think you were right to give him a boy’s name.”
“How can you tell?”
“I’m no expert, but that would be my guess. I don’t see any sign of nursing nipples and the openings in the rear are pretty far apart.”
“How did you know that?” she asked.
“I love wild animals. I must have read it somewhere. I’m always reading about them.”
“Do you and your family have pets?” she asked, proud of her cleverness.
His eyes crinkled in a smile. He saw through it. “No family, no pets. I don’t like caging animals. I travel some to where I can watch them in the wild.”
Oliver stirred, bringing their attention back to him. They stepped back and watched. He sat up, perked his head around, and saw them. He scrambled to his feet and scampered a few steps away. He turned, sat, and watched them.
Grace stepped back to her bench, retrieving her bag of nuts. She walked to the tree and dumped the rest of her nuts into Oliver’s hollow.
“What are you doing?” the man asked.
“Giving Oliver a winter store of nuts,” she said. “He’s so thin. I don’t think the other squirrels let him get a proper diet.”
She turned back and looked him in the eyes. “Architect?” she said. “What do you design and build?”
“There are always a few small projects—a house here and there, factory renovations, things like that. My last big one was the city’s municipal administration building.”
“Weren’t there a bunch of awards for that building?”
He blushed faintly and looked down. “Yeah, there were,” he said softly. He raised his head and looked her in the eyes. “Do you have a name?”
“Contrary to what some folks seem to believe, I do. I’m Grace.”
“Yes, you are. And I gather that’s your name, too,” he said with a grin.
Her mouth fell open. She realized it and snapped it closed. Her breath was coming faster. This wasn’t the way things went with men in her life. She felt confused. She wanted to ask for his name, but she couldn’t speak. He took up the slack.
“My name is Randall. Randall Markham.”
Grace’s mind spun in turmoil, thoughts tumbling about like in a clothes dryer. Before she realized it, she grabbed one of the thoughts and it tumbled out. “So you draw buildings and then mark ‘em.”
His head lifted back in a loud laugh. “Yes, yes,” he eked out between chuckles, “that’s exactly right. Say, it’s past noon. Would you care to share some lunch?”
Grace finally found her tongue. “Yes,” was all she could manage.
They had forgotten Oliver. He watched as they walked away.
Randall chose a small grill that had outside tables. He told her that he considered ostentation in the same category as flu or fraud. The grill had a tree in its center with limbs reaching out over the tables. They ate soup and split a sandwich. They exchanged personal histories and found they shared similar social values. They looked at options for the world’s future. Grace hoped it would never end. The waiter had cleared the table and left the bill. Still, they sat.
Randall appeared tranquil, but inside his thoughts were tumbling about. This woman was quiet but thoughtful. When she spoke, it was after evaluating the topic at hand. She showed keen insight and reasoned judgment. She was well-informed about every issue they had raised. She was kind, gentle, and compassionate. Yet she was strong and stood up for her beliefs. She cared for nature in general and wild animals in particular. He felt grateful to the ugly, little squirrel that had brought them together. He felt like he could talk with her all day and week and year. He didn’t want their conversation to end.
“Grace,” he said, “I have tickets to that play that’s just in from Broadway. Would you care to go with me to dinner and the theater this weekend?”
Grace gasped. “Me?” she whispered. “Me? Why?” she blurted. “You could date any beautiful young girl you wanted.” Randall jerked his head around and stared at her.
“Oh…my…God!” she said. “Did I say that out loud? Oh my God!” She reddened. She wanted to shrink to Oliver’s size, to run up the tree and hide in the leaves. Randall looked at her for a moment, then turned and looked at the tree for a moment.
“Grace,” he said without turning back to her, “do you like music?”
“I play the oboe,” she said, voice quavering.
He looked back at her. “Then you know Rachmaninoff’s 3rd piano concerto?”
“Yes,” she said, confused.
“Every Sunday evening, I listen to it or something in the same class. I lose myself in it. Time and place cease to exist. I’m not sure if I devour it or if it devours me. Every time I hear it I find something new. A hidden finesse I never heard before.”
He paused. Grace was speechless. He continued. “So it is with a masterpiece. You may not feel exalted when you first hear it, but you feel more rapture each time. Character defines beauty, you know, not the other way around.”
Grace found her tongue. “I…I don’t understand.”
“Let me put it this way. When I hear a new piece of music that shows all the signs of being a masterpiece, I want to hear it again.”
Grace continued to stare at him, her mouth hanging open, unnoticed.
“And so, my dear Grace, I ask again. Would you be willing to spend an evening with me?”
“Gracie, you’ve got gray hairs,” she said to her image. She reached up and separated one from its fellows and brought the end around in front of her eyes.
“Sure enough. White. Crap, crap, CRAP! How many?”
She moved toward the mirror to peer at them up close. They became blurry.
“Geez! That, too? Am I going to have to get reading glasses?”
She backed away slowly until the strands came into focus.
“One, two, three … um … four. Yep. Four.”
She repeated the process on the left.
“None here. Maybe I worry more on the right side.” She turned up one side of her mouth with a sardonic grin. “Only early forties, Grace. Are you starting to age already?”
She took stock of her face.
“Your face is already too long.”
She held her hand in front of the upper part of her face, fingers slightly apart so she could peek through.
“Your mouth is too thin—no plush, sensuous lips. Probably aging will make it more so.”
She went to a full-length mirror in the bedroom and took stock of her body.
“A couple too many inches around the middle,” she told herself.
She turned sideways.
“Butt starting to sag.”
She sighed, lay back down on the bed, and stared at the ceiling.
“I was never overwhelmed with suitors in my twenties,” she continued lecturing herself. “And those who did come around were men I could never have tolerated for the rest of my life.”
She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them again. The ceiling was still there, inexorable, immovable, mute. She sighed again, bathed in gloom.
“I suppose this is a sign that society, the oh-so-wicked society, plans to see that I remain alone for the rest of my life.”
She blinked away a bit of moisture that obscured her vision.
“I can dye the gray,” she thought, “but what then?”
Her thoughts turned to a time she had tried to gussy herself up, the full makeup treatment. And what a failure it was.
“You can hang all the ornaments you want on a misshapen Christmas tree,” she told herself, “but it’s still misshapen.”
She sighed once more and shook her head.
“So what shall we do on this lovely day off from work?” she asked, all too aware that there was no “we”.
“Film? I can stream that tonight after the sun is gone. Lunch at a sidewalk café? The amount they charge is exceeded only by their number of calories. Uh-uh. Park? Yeah, I’ll do that. I know what. I’ll find the ugliest squirrel in the park and feed it. Somebody needs to give it love.”
She pulled on jeans, a blouse, and a denim jacket and went into the kitchen for some coffee. After breakfast, she rummaged on a shelf to find some peanuts.
In the park, she sat on a bench and luxuriated in the late morning mix of warm sun and cool breeze. She looked at the squirrels. Little gray creatures, they were, with fluffy tails. Perky ears. Wiggly noses. Their movements were swift and jerky. They chattered at each other and at a dog being led past.
Sweet little things, she thought. Busy, busy.
Someone had told her they were in the same animal category as rats. Hard to believe.
She tossed a couple of nuts to one nearby. It scrambled for them. That brought more squirrels. She parceled out nuts stingily, hoarding them for the one she sought.
She grew tired of the game and thought of moving on. Her legs twitched like they wanted to be used. She was lifting the bag of peanuts to dump them all when she saw it. At the back of the pack was a squirrel a bit smaller than the others, scrawny. Every time it pushed in to get a share of the nuts, the pack pushed together, keeping it at the back.
She set the bag on the bench beside her and sat still, offering no more enticements. After a bit, the squirrels moved off, one by one, in search of more accessible prizes. The one she was watching hesitated. She moved her arm as if to toss a nut. It came closer. It was so thin. It was missing patches of fur.
“You need a name,” she said aloud to it. It cocked its head. She thought. “Oliver, of course. Little Oliver.” She visualized Oliver Twist stepping hesitantly toward the soup table. In her mind, he lifted his bowl and said, “Please, sir, may I have some more nuts?” She giggled.
“Here you go, Oliver,” she said, tossing it a nut. He pounced, devouring it greedily. She tossed another. This time he didn’t eat it. He held it in his teeth and ran to a nearby tree. The tree appeared to be dead. Rot had provided a small hollow in the trunk where Oliver stored his winter stash. He turned back and looked at her. Other squirrels were coming back to her. Oliver took a protective stance in front of his hoard.
After a minute, Grace rose and walked slowly the few steps to the next bench in the park. The other squirrels, seeing her leave, went back to their own pursuits. She sat and watched.
Before long, Oliver moved toward her. He took a hop, paused, then took another hop. When he drew close, Grace tossed him two more nuts. He ate one and held the other in his mouth, turning toward his hiding place. Another squirrel was foraging between him and his dead tree. Oliver chose a different route and climbed a tree close to Grace’s bench. He jumped across to a limb on his tree. The dead limb snapped and down he went. Grace had seen it happen before. She knew that squirrels usually righted themselves and landed unhurt. But as she watched in fascinated dread, Oliver thumped into another branch before he could twist around. He plummeted to the ground and lay inert.
Grace stepped quickly over to him, bending to better see him. Was he stunned? Injured? Dead? With relief, she saw his tiny chest rise and fall with breath. At least he was alive.
“Bad fall.” A man’s voice came from behind her. She straightened and turned. Without her eyes even moving, she took him all in. Chinos and a polo shirt. Elegant. Handsome. Broad but not large jaw. Straight nose. Light brown hair combed to the side with a lock falling over the high forehead, gray at the temples. She became aware that she was staring. She lost herself in his soft, brown eyes, set off by smile crinkles like little arrows pointing to them. She couldn’t breathe.
She glanced at his left hand. No ring. Not an assurance, but better chances.
“Yes, he had a bad fall,” she managed at last.
“Is it alive?” he asked.
“Oliver,” she said.
“What?”
“His name is Oliver.”
“Oh.”
“Alive, yes,” she said. “He’s breathing. I don’t know if he’s injured.”
“Let’s look,” he said, bending down.
“Are you a doctor? Or a vet?”
“No. I’m an architect. But we can check some things ourselves. People and animals survived—what?—a hundred millennia? Without certified doctors or vets.”
He gently felt Oliver’s legs, feet, back, tail, and chest.
“No obvious fractures,” he said, so softly she cocked her head to hear. “That leaves the question of internal injuries. And I think you were right to give him a boy’s name.”
“How can you tell?”
“I’m no expert, but that would be my guess. I don’t see any sign of nursing nipples and the openings in the rear are pretty far apart.”
“How did you know that?” she asked.
“I love wild animals. I must have read it somewhere. I’m always reading about them.”
“Do you and your family have pets?” she asked, proud of her cleverness.
His eyes crinkled in a smile. He saw through it. “No family, no pets. I don’t like caging animals. I travel some to where I can watch them in the wild.”
Oliver stirred, bringing their attention back to him. They stepped back and watched. He sat up, perked his head around, and saw them. He scrambled to his feet and scampered a few steps away. He turned, sat, and watched them.
Grace stepped back to her bench, retrieving her bag of nuts. She walked to the tree and dumped the rest of her nuts into Oliver’s hollow.
“What are you doing?” the man asked.
“Giving Oliver a winter store of nuts,” she said. “He’s so thin. I don’t think the other squirrels let him get a proper diet.”
She turned back and looked him in the eyes. “Architect?” she said. “What do you design and build?”
“There are always a few small projects—a house here and there, factory renovations, things like that. My last big one was the city’s municipal administration building.”
“Weren’t there a bunch of awards for that building?”
He blushed faintly and looked down. “Yeah, there were,” he said softly. He raised his head and looked her in the eyes. “Do you have a name?”
“Contrary to what some folks seem to believe, I do. I’m Grace.”
“Yes, you are. And I gather that’s your name, too,” he said with a grin.
Her mouth fell open. She realized it and snapped it closed. Her breath was coming faster. This wasn’t the way things went with men in her life. She felt confused. She wanted to ask for his name, but she couldn’t speak. He took up the slack.
“My name is Randall. Randall Markham.”
Grace’s mind spun in turmoil, thoughts tumbling about like in a clothes dryer. Before she realized it, she grabbed one of the thoughts and it tumbled out. “So you draw buildings and then mark ‘em.”
His head lifted back in a loud laugh. “Yes, yes,” he eked out between chuckles, “that’s exactly right. Say, it’s past noon. Would you care to share some lunch?”
Grace finally found her tongue. “Yes,” was all she could manage.
They had forgotten Oliver. He watched as they walked away.
Randall chose a small grill that had outside tables. He told her that he considered ostentation in the same category as flu or fraud. The grill had a tree in its center with limbs reaching out over the tables. They ate soup and split a sandwich. They exchanged personal histories and found they shared similar social values. They looked at options for the world’s future. Grace hoped it would never end. The waiter had cleared the table and left the bill. Still, they sat.
Randall appeared tranquil, but inside his thoughts were tumbling about. This woman was quiet but thoughtful. When she spoke, it was after evaluating the topic at hand. She showed keen insight and reasoned judgment. She was well-informed about every issue they had raised. She was kind, gentle, and compassionate. Yet she was strong and stood up for her beliefs. She cared for nature in general and wild animals in particular. He felt grateful to the ugly, little squirrel that had brought them together. He felt like he could talk with her all day and week and year. He didn’t want their conversation to end.
“Grace,” he said, “I have tickets to that play that’s just in from Broadway. Would you care to go with me to dinner and the theater this weekend?”
Grace gasped. “Me?” she whispered. “Me? Why?” she blurted. “You could date any beautiful young girl you wanted.” Randall jerked his head around and stared at her.
“Oh…my…God!” she said. “Did I say that out loud? Oh my God!” She reddened. She wanted to shrink to Oliver’s size, to run up the tree and hide in the leaves. Randall looked at her for a moment, then turned and looked at the tree for a moment.
“Grace,” he said without turning back to her, “do you like music?”
“I play the oboe,” she said, voice quavering.
He looked back at her. “Then you know Rachmaninoff’s 3rd piano concerto?”
“Yes,” she said, confused.
“Every Sunday evening, I listen to it or something in the same class. I lose myself in it. Time and place cease to exist. I’m not sure if I devour it or if it devours me. Every time I hear it I find something new. A hidden finesse I never heard before.”
He paused. Grace was speechless. He continued. “So it is with a masterpiece. You may not feel exalted when you first hear it, but you feel more rapture each time. Character defines beauty, you know, not the other way around.”
Grace found her tongue. “I…I don’t understand.”
“Let me put it this way. When I hear a new piece of music that shows all the signs of being a masterpiece, I want to hear it again.”
Grace continued to stare at him, her mouth hanging open, unnoticed.
“And so, my dear Grace, I ask again. Would you be willing to spend an evening with me?”
R. H. Riffenburgh has been fortunate to experience a series of professions—among them university professor, company CEO, government scientist, oceanometrician, Navy undersea diver, NATO officer in Europe, and planner/analyst for medical research. He is now pursuing a retirement career as a fiction writer. Website: robertriffenburgh.com.