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The 'Possum by W. Lee Kincy  The black metal light cover vibrated against the brick wall as Melanie slammed the patio door with one hand while holding a coffee cup in the other.
“I told you I’m not going! Not now! Not ever!” she screeched in the direction of the house. Then, as if realizing the futility of yelling at a wall, she jerked the door open and screamed again. “Did you hear me? I don’t need anybody’s help! . . . Yours included!” This time when she slammed the door, she concentrated on the vibrations like an offender with a polygraph. She flopped onto the wooden bench and even more of the hot coffee slopped onto her and the concrete.
“Shoot fire,” she blurted and decided that was exactly what she wanted to do. “Shoot fire, shoot fire, shoot fire!” she chanted, pleased with the image of fire blasting from her mouth and scorching everything. Cupping the hot mug in her hands, she sipped the brew ceremoniously while looking down at the jeans she’d worn the day before and the day before that. A white, crusted mass clung at her thigh right above her knee, and she eyed it hatefully before scratching at it with her fingernails. As the dried cake icing packed beneath her chipped nails, she realized that she hadn’t eaten anything since the cake tumbled out of her shaky hands and landed upside down on her lap. That had been in the early afternoon she thought. Which day, she didn’t know and really didn’t care. Glancing down at her sunken stomach as if it might grumble its displeasure, she realized that she was content with coffee.
Disdainfully glancing at the rising sun, she spoke to it as if she were speaking to an unwelcomed guest.
“Well, would you look here. Another fine Southern day,” she sarcastically declared to the magenta that bled into the blue horizon. She slid down on the bench until her bottom clung to the last board and the back of her head rested uncomfortably against the top slat. From this position she sipped and listened to Dewayne’s soft footsteps in the kitchen, and her eyes narrowed. Six and a half months and counting and every morning he still got up at 5:00 a.m., showered, dressed, ate, and left. Nothing had changed. Nothing.
Melanie, without moving her head, darted her eyes in the direction of the door when she heard him rummaging through the cabinets. She knew he wouldn’t find any bread or chips so he’d have to take stale crackers to work or buy his lunch. Pleased, she tilted her cup and let the coffee wash down her disgust. A hummingbird zoomed to the one unempty feeder and drew in the nectar while Melanie delighted in the fact that soon no feeder would be full and summer would be over.
When the footsteps in the house neared the patio door, Melanie put the cup to her lips and held it there though not sipping. Dewayne opened the door and stepped into the morning air.
“Going to be a nice day today. Not too hot,” he commented as he looked at Melanie.
“Uh-huh,” she grunted.
“Said it was going to be in the upper 70’s. Breaking records for August. ... Might be a good day to drive to your mom’s.”
Melanie glared at him over the rim of her mug and then looked in the opposite direction.
Dewayne casually added, “Maybe I could even get off early and we could . . ..”
“Listen,” Melanie prefaced, “how many times do I have to tell you that I don’t need a babysitter, and I don’t need a chauffeur.”
“You know I didn’t mean that, Melanie.”
“You didn’t? . . . Melanie . . . why don’t you drive to your mom’s! Melanie . . . maybe I could even get off . . . and what, Dewayne? What? Take a leisurely drive down to the cemetery again?” she spewed.
Trying to avoid another confrontation, Dewayne stared toward the decorative pond in the far corner of the large lot without replying. Appearing immersed, he headed in that direction.
Melanie tried not to observe the ritual again. Daily he traipsed to the same spot and checked the nylon line that held Barry’s homemade wind catcher securely to the branch. Then he nudged it with his finger and watched it circle like the childish pinwheels they had placed on their son’s grave.
Nervously, Melanie shifted her weight in order to leap from the bench and dart into the house before she thought she would scream. Only, when turning, she noticed that the rite had been interrupted. Dewayne squatted on the ground and hunched over something. Melanie jumped to her feet and tiptoed awkwardly in order to see what had demanded his attention. When she saw a white mound in the grass, she yelled in his direction.
“It’s not broken, is it? . . . I tried to put it away before something happened to it. But you wouldn’t listen. Now . . . it’s too late,” Melanie reprimanded.
Her jarring footfalls garbled the words, but Dewayne, anticipating her concern, answered while ignoring the accusation.
“It not Barry’s wind catcher, Melanie . . .” Dewayne started.
“Oh, good,” Melanie replied, relieved. “What is it then?”
Standing behind Dewayne, she peered over his shoulder at the inert ‘possum.
“Is it dead?” she queried.
Dewayne pointed to its rising chest and answered, “No . . . not yet.”
“What do you mean, not yet?”
“Well, something’s wrong, but I don’t see any blood or anything, but it’s definitely on its way out.”
Melanie squatted beside Dewayne to get a closer look. She leaned in cautiously and saw its chest barely rise and fall.
“What are we going to do, Dewayne? . . . Call the vet?”
“Won’t help, Melanie. It’s just a ‘possum that’s probably been hit by a car. ... If I thought it would, I’d call.”
“Well, we sure can’t just leave it.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll move it to the shade at least.”
Dewayne headed to the garage while Melanie kept guard. She spoke as gently to the animal as she had spoken to her seven-year-old son.
“It’s okay. We’re going to get you to the shade. . . . and then I’ll get you some water,” Melanie offered while shifting to better study the creature. Its bristled coat coruscated in the morning light like the remnants of glitter on the wind catcher, and she longed to pet the fur. Resisting, she continued, “It won’t be long now. Dewayne’ll get you all fixed up.” Then, in isolated alarm, she shouted, “Dewayne, hurry!”
Jeans uncomfortably cutting into her waist, she shifted to her knees as she absorbed the creature’s features. Two triangular teeth harmlessly pressed into the bottom jaw of its long snout which was tipped with a delicate pink nose. Only one small, black eye was visible, and it compellingly lay like a moist, black pearl on white sand. Tears formed in Melanie’s own eyes as she noted the moisture pool in the ‘possum’s.
“Don’t die. Don’t die,” she whispered. The breeze picked up, rustling the leaves of the crabapple, and Melanie looked up and added for emphasis, “Please.”
Dewayne continued to shift through the stack of lawn tools leaning against the garage wall, and Melanie yelled again in his direction.
“Dewayne!”
“I’ll be right there ... I’ve got to get the hoe,” he answered.
A passing cloud crossed the morning sun, and a shadow floated over the ‘possum’s glistening coat like a sudden shroud. Shoulders slumping, Melanie saw the shadow sidle on across the lawn and sweep across Dewayne’s shoes as he neared. Numbed, she rested her palms on her thighs and unconsciously rubbed her jeans.
“This should do it, Melanie. . . . Is it still alive?” Dewayne questioned.
Lips quivering, Melanie answered while Dewayne laid the shovel and hoe on the ground.
“. . . Barely . . . though.”
“Yeah, I see,” Barry surmised as he bent over the animal and scrutinized the angle of the body. Picking up the shovel, he slipped it beneath the ‘possum’s two hind legs which disappeared beneath the sliding body. Deliberately, Dewayne shook the shovel slightly so as not to snag the soil or fur.
Melanie lifted one hand and gentled his attempt by patting the air above the ‘possum.
“Easy . . . easy . . . Dewayne.”
“I trying . . . I’m trying.”
As the tip jabbed into the ground near the shoulder, Dewayne lifted the spade slowly. The ‘possum’s head lopped downward, and Melanie instantaneously begged.
“Don’tmovehimdon’tmovehim . . . it’s hurting him.”
<“Nono . . . not yet.” Melanie scooted on the grass and positioned herself between the morning rays and the ‘possum. She scanned the sky in hopes of seeing a cloud near, but when she didn’t spot one, she raised one hand to shield the animal’s face completely.
Compassionately, Dewayne observed her attempt. He slipped the shovel from beneath the creature and let the empty scoop point upward. He stepped to Melanie’s side and knelt down beside her to further block the rays. Realizing that his added height completed the shade, Melanie lowered her hand.
“Dewayne, is he old?”
“Could be. Got a lot of gray in its coat.”
“Yeah, but he’s not very big. . . . Think he’s just a baby?”
“I don’t know,” he answered before adding again, “but we need to get it to the shade.”
“I know. . . . I just don’t want to hurt him. . . . You don’t think he’s hurting, do you?”
“No, Melanie . . . it’s not hurting, hon. . . . You want me to try again?”
“It’s a nice place, isn’t it, Dewayne? . . . There are trees . . . and flowers.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“I think he’d like it.”
“I know he would.”
The breeze ruffled the ‘possum’s fur once again as it lay peacefully still. As soft sobs shook Melanie’s shoulders, Dewayne encircled her quivering frame and whispered soothingly, It’s okay . . . it’s okay.”
W. Lee Kincy is a former teacher and counselor. Her work has appeared in The Southeast Missourian, The Vindicator, Sweetgum Notes, and other publications. She lives in Jackson. Copyright © 2007. Do not reproduce without permission.
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