Nell said she was going to give the marmot to our mother as a present. My sister was always like that, disguising her mischief as kindness.
This was Spokane in June 1910. Not hot yet, but already the days were long and dull. Any idea to leave the apartment was a good one.
Down at the river’s edge, Nell stalked the wheat-colored creatures. While I fretted about wet shoes, she removed her blouse. I was about to start in with Mother won’t like it when Nell pounced, trapping a marmot in the fabric of her shirt, its head and torso covered, feet kicking frantically.
“Give it here.” I rearranged the frightened bundle in her arms like a baby in a swaddle. It calmed.
“See, you’re already a good mama,” Nell said, teasing but not mean.
She carried it five busy blocks through downtown, men calling out from tavern doors, respectable folks with errands pretending not to see. I blushed. Nell stuck out her tongue at everyone. Then four flights of stairs to our apartment. She tried to sit the marmot in the empty fruit bowl. “So decorative!” she declared. Of course it wouldn’t stay. It clattered off the table and out our open door, its whistle loud and true. We knew its trail through the building from shouts of “Monster!” and “Rat!” Nell ran after, laughing at the fun of it.
Outside, the marmot had flushed everyone from their dens—the palm readers in the front shop, the day drunks at their card game on the second floor, the whores and their madam on the third, and the family with too many people in too few rooms (which was us) from the fourth. Everybody was arguing over who was to blame for the vermin. Along came a cop, who didn’t give the occultists, or the gamblers, or the prostitutes a thought, but glared at Nell and me. “What are you kids doing here?” Nell told him she just wanted to catch her marmot back.
“What for?” I whispered.
“To let it go again,” she said.
We were thirteen and twelve—not little girls anymore. We were supposed to be thinking of the future, of a clean home, a respectable husband, and all the babies he could give us. And I did think of those things, wanting to be good, to do as I was told.
Nell didn’t think of them at all. Only of trouble set free.
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From Sinkhole and Other Inexplicable Voids: Stories by Leyna Krow, published by Penguin Books, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. © 2025 by Leyna Krow.
