Mrs. Hare kisses her baby Hares every morning and lays out their Hare outfits and makes them porridge and cleans their whiskers and Mrs. Hare tells them how important it is for them to try their best; Mary, Marigold, Margarine, and the unfortunately named junior Hare, baby Mousekowitz.
And Mr. Hare disagrees. He disagreed about junior Mousekowitz’s name (what a mouthful!) and disagrees about the state of the world and what it will mean for Mary, Marigold, Margarine, and baby Mousekowitz’s future in it.
And by now you probably know how this story will go.
So what’s the point of me?
What work would you have me do, to describe their lives and their burrow and their small hare dramas, that you cannot do yourself?
Oh! It’s at the base of a tree. The kitchen is nestled in its roots. Mrs. Hare wears a yellow dress as she bakes — you know — fucking acorn pies. She bought it off Stitchwell and it came in a UPS truck. Mr. Mole delivered it.
Mr. Mole has a bad knee. His doctor, Dr. Rose Ahlmut, has advised he undergo surgery to repair the cartilage in his knee. Mr. Mole cannot afford the deductible. If he doesn't want the surgery, she suggests, there’s always physical therapy. But he should consider a different line of work, a less physically demanding job.
In this economy? Mr. Mole thinks and rubs his knee.
My wife wants me to write happy stories.
I want to write happy stories, but when I try I feel like I am lying.
Marigold does well on her Algebra test. She gets an A+. Mrs. Hare is giddy. Good job, Marigold!
Mr. Hare, feeling like the unhappiest son of a bitch in the world, tries to match their enthusiasm. Good job, Marigold!
And Marigold looks like she’s been pierced through by a poisoned spear. Mrs. Hare comforts her and puts the test results up on the fridge, there, nestled in the roots of the tree of their burrow.
That night, after Mary and Marigold, Margarine and the poorly named only son, baby Mousekowitz, each go to bed and Mrs. Hare kisses them one by one, and after she and Mr. Hare brush their oversized front teeth. After she washes her face and joins Mr. Hare in their little bed, and Mrs. Hare turns to him with that old burning desire and Mr. Hare turns to her and tells her how he just listened to a podcast about cryptocurrency’s direct link to murder in developing countries,
Mrs. Hare asks, Why can’t you be happy?
Residing in this question, in their little bed, in the burrow beneath the tree, is also the unsaid question for Mr. Hare of what about his current life is so terribly broken and,
like, what would it take? Does he even know? And can’t you see how important it is to your little Hare children — your kind and generous Mary, brilliant Marigold, and don’t forget Margarine, she does so much and asks so little; he’s difficult, but it isn’t his fault, our dear Hare Mousekowitz —
how important it is to be happy for them? And she isn’t wrong. That’s kind of the worst part, how right she is.
Mrs. Hare turns over and turns off the light.
When Mr. Hare tries to go to sleep at night he thinks of fields, endless open fields, and dogs chasing after him. He imagines them catching him in their jaws and wringing his neck.
I am not sure why I bother writing it when you know this all already.
