opossum

Another argument with my wife. And I’m speeding down M-32. Toward Gilchrist Creek in Avery. Questioning my life. My marriage. The man I’ve become. And out of nowhere comes the opossum.
I see it clearly. As if watching. With a zoom lens. From a cloud. It ambles out of tall grass in the ditch. Crosses the wide gravel shoulder. Moves onto black asphalt. Over the solid white line. Looking like a big dirty-white dishrag with legs.
And so. There is the car. Fueled with emotion and traveling too fast. And there is the opossum. Suddenly still and waiting in the road.
I don’t stop. Don’t slow down. And the opossum ends up under the car. All bones and tissue pounding against steel. My foot never even leaves the accelerator. But it isn’t long before guilt catches up. Fills me with regret. And an image of the opossum rises in my mind. It is broken to pieces. Purple and red guts exploding through pink muscle and split skin. Blood pooling up on the road. Black eyes staring into the big morning sky. Paralyzed. Coursing with fear. Praying for a quick end to come with the next passerby.

Killing an oversized rodent—a goony-eyed trash eater—shouldn’t mean anything at all. I’ve killed animals before. As a kid. Knocking off birds and squirrels with slingshots and BBs. As an adult. Shooting deer and rabbits with rifles and shotguns. And all of my life catching fish. With rod and reel. Nets. Spears. And by hand. But there is something about hitting this opossum that bothers me. I haven’t been careful. Paying attention. I’ve been driving a familiar road but I’m lost as can be.
I convince myself that what I’ve done is necessary. Somehow, in the greater scheme of things, I’ve played a part in something bigger. Lasting and complex. It is part of Mother Nature’s plan. God’s fancy. It is important. Another piece in the puzzle. A vital step in the evolution of the animal kingdom. A strengthening of the opossum species. Opossums aren’t supposed to be crossing roads during daylight hours. They’re supposed to be sleeping. So this one must have been sick. Injured. Or stupid. And now, the world has one less of them. I have done my duty. Survival of the fittest carries on.
Besides, there are other things on my mind. Like my wife. Temporarily insane from pregnancy, she’s kicked me out of the house. Again. This time because I suggested we go walking.
“I don’t want to go walking!” she snapped.
“Listen, Hannah. I’m worried. Worried about you. And worried about the baby. Sitting around like this isn’t good. Why don’t we exercise in the morning like we used to?”
“I used to exercise. You stumbled along behind. And that’s only when I was able to get you out of bed.”
She chomped at a doughnut. Glared at me.
This was true. Hannah had always tried to drag me out of bed. She was cheerful. Invigorated. Ready to go. Shaking me awake. Snatching my pillow. Trying to get me as excited about the three-mile trek to the duck park as she was. So every other morning I’d go along. Stay with her as best I could. For a mile. Maybe two. But it wouldn’t last long. I’d peter out. Fall behind. And end up waving her on as I turned back home.
Of course, as soon as I’d tuck myself back into bed. Put my head to the pillow and find dreamland again, Hannah would return. Sweaty. Breathing heavy. More energized than ever. Ready for a bout of sex. Determined to give me a workout one way or the other. Yes, my dear Hannah, she was fit. Good spirited. Fun.
Nothing like the depressed, tired woman she’d become. Spending day-after-day on the sofa. Stewing our kid in chocolate milk, junk food, and bad TV.
“Hannah. Our kid’s not even seen the light of day and already you’re turning it into a couch potato.”
She was silent.
“Hannah?” I asked.
She bit off a chunk of doughnut. Chewed slowly. Turned off the television and stared at me. Tears started in her eyes.
“Hannah?”
“Why don’t you try having this fucking kid?” she screamed. And she threw the rest of the doughnut at me.
My attempts to calm her were useless. The more I talked, the madder she got. A pillow. The chocolate milk carton. The remote for the TV. Each came flying at me with startling accuracy and speed. I ducked and dodged. Ran until I was safe outside. And I tried to imagine what the kid must have been feeling. Body temperature rising. Heartbeat racing. Surrounded by flesh. Sloshing around in fluid. Blinded and ready to become whatever Hannah and I wanted it to be. A strong little girl. A playful little boy. Growing within and alongside the lines we’d drawn and the footprints we’d left behind. To become a good person. A beautiful woman. A thoughtful man.
I stood outside. Breathed. And found comfort in the late afternoon sky as the biggest flock of blackbirds I’d ever seen—a wide swirling wave—swooped over the house and settled with an airy whoosh into the leafy crown of the big maple in our yard. It was something special, I thought. The sort of thing I’d want to share with my kid one day. Around a campfire. At the dinner table. Or riding in the car. On our way. To Gilchrist Creek.
“I remember the biggest flock of birds,” I’d say. “They came swooping round and settled into the big maple tree just as I’d ducked outside to escape being hit by the remote for the TV. You see, your Mom had kicked me out of the house again and…”
I was gone away in it—reveling in memories to come—when Hannah opened the door.
“Get out!” she screamed. She threw my fishing rod and the car keys.
The blackbirds blazed into the sky. All sound and fury. I turned toward Hannah. Pointed at the dark wave of birds rolling through the sky, but she didn’t care. She threw my tackle box and creel into the yard.
“Asshole!” she screamed. And she slammed the door.

☼
In the creek, I walk upstream. Slowly. Casting wax worms weighted with small split shots. There are sparrows and jays. Otters and muskrats. And there are trout. Brookies buried deep in dark water that carves away at the bank and rushes over a log jam.
I catch two fat-bellied brookies within five minutes. I hook the third as a canoe floats round the bend toward me. It’s an old couple. Wearing floppy-brimmed sun hats. Polarized glasses. Matching blue vests. They near the log jam and steer toward the bank. I land the fish, unhook it, and place it into my creel. The woman is in the front of the canoe and she gets out first. When she’s ashore, she reaches over and steadies the canoe so he can get out. Their movements are fluid—synchronized—and as they lift the canoe from the water and carry it alongside the stream, I can tell they’ve been doing this for years. They have not noticed me, or choose not to, as I bait my hook and cast another hapless wax worm into the deep. Behind me, I hear them put the canoe back into the water. When I turn to look, they are gliding away effortlessly. Another trout bites. I set the hook. The fish leaps from the water, shakes loose, and is gone.
I have only waded thirty yards into the stream. Have not gone any further than the log jam. But the day has passed. And I’ve caught five legal fish that need ice. So, I pack up and head to the car.
☼
By the time I reached the gas station in Avery, it is dark. I call Hannah to see how it will be when I get home.
“How was it?” she asks.
“It was nice,” I say, looking into the sky. The stars are so tiny and bright against all of the black that I feel far away from everything.
“Did you catch anything?”
“Brookies.”
“Did you keep any?”
“More than I should have. They’re in the cooler. In the trunk.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“Gas station in Avery.”
“Good. Then you aren’t far away.”
“How are you feeling?” I ask. But I know it doesn’t matter. She can be fine now. Nice. Full of love and care and respect. But it can and will change without notice. I can say stupid things, nice things, mean things, lovely things, but ultimately it boils down to how she hears whatever I say. Women are mysterious, complex creatures, and I have swallowed the hard fact that I will never know the right things to ask or say. There is nothing I can do but try. Stay alert. Listen. Keep on keepin’ on.
Hannah pauses. Takes a long deep breath.
I imagine oxygen mixing with blood. Being carried through her body. Down to our baby.
“I’m feeling fine,” she says. “Sorry for kicking you out.”
Another pause. Another deep breath.
I wonder how it feels. Down there. Tucked away in a world away from the world. Floating naked in a warm sea of vibration and muffled sound.
I look around the station lot. Two figures move in the shadows behind the store. I see the glow of a cigarette as they pass it back and forth.
“It’s okay, Hannah. I needed some time to myself. Besides, now we’ve got trout to eat.”
“I’ll cook them when you get home,” she says. “You’re probably hungry.”
I am hungry. And it is one of the reasons I’ve stopped at the station. They have venison jerky, pickled eggs, and beer. But food isn’t the only reason I’ve stopped. I also need ice for the trout in the cooler. And then there is the car. Hannah’s car as much as it is mine, and taking it home dented, scratched, or stamped with opossum blood will easily send her into a frenzy. I want to give the car the once-over before taking it home because I am sure there’ll be something. Blood. Guts. Hair. Bits of Mr. Opossum that need to be cleaned away.
“It’s getting late,” I say. “I’ll get something here and eat it on the ride home.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Hurry home,” she says. “I miss you.”
Sure, I think. Until I get home, say something stupid, and get pelted with a shoe. A glass. The TV Guide.
“I’ll hurry,” I say, and I hang up the phone.
The two figures from the darkness come into the light. They are teenagers. A tall lanky one and a short stocky one. The tall one struts inside. The short one ambles toward the gas pump. Empty milk jug in hand.
I get down on my knees to survey the car for damage. There is not a mark. Not one drop of evidence to be found. And now, I wonder if any of it happened at all. People under great stress sometimes imagine things. Maybe I created the opossum, I say to myself. Maybe Mr. Opossum doesn’t exist. And then I see it. A bright shiny quarter near the passenger side tire of the car. I pick it up. It is dated 1973. The year I was born. I put it into my pocket then walk to the store. When I pass the stocky kid at the pump he is filling the milk jug with gasoline. He is mumbling under his breath.
“Fuckin’ possum,” he says.
But this, I think, cannot be. And something shoots up from the deep. Ices my insides. Turns hot, as it rushes from my gut to my throat.
“Beer,” I say, as I walk inside. “I need beer.”
The tall lanky kid is peering into a small room behind the counter. I hear the cashier fumbling around, moving boxes. Looking for something. I’m at the cooler when I hear her come out.
“No. We don’t have matches. Sorry.”
“Last time I was here they gave me free ones.”
I take a bag of ice from one cooler and a six-pack of beer from another. When I get to the counter, the lanky kid is still there. He is taller and lankier than he first appeared. Smells like cigarettes and motor oil. His hands and wrists are grimy. It looks as if he’s been under the hood of an old car all day.
The cashier is in the back room again. Only now I can see her. Opening drawers and closing drawers. Moving more boxes around. There is a small table with a microwave. A refrigerator. Coffee maker. And a big black safe. The lanky kid is leaning forward over the counter. He is twitchy. One hand deep into his pocket. The other tapping dirty fingernails on the counter.
When the cashier backs out of the room, she pulls the door closed and locks it with the key that’s hanging from a lanyard around her neck. She turns and moves to her place behind the register. She is pregnant. Her round, firm belly juts out from under her blue AVERY DEPOT smock like an enormous balloon.
“No, I’m sorry. No matches back there.”
“Then ring up the gas,” the lanky kid says, nodding toward the window. The stocky kid has finished filling the jug. He’s standing at the pump, staring in at us.
“You’re not supposed to put gas into milk jugs,” she says as she punches the register keys. “It’s not an approved container.”
She is tiny and young and doesn’t even look old enough to be working the night shift at a gas station. She has a nice, pleasant face, green eyes, and wild frizzy red hair.
“We ran out of gas just down the road,” Lanky says. “It’s the only thing we could find.”
“Two dollars and ninety-eight cents,” the cashier says.
She looks out at the stocky kid. He’s lit a cigarette. Is leaning up against one of the canopy pillars. Blowing smoke rings. Next to a sign that says NO SMOKING.
“Can’t he read?” she asks.
The lanky takes his hand from deep in his pocket and dumps a handful of change onto the counter.
“Fuck off,” he says.
The cashier snatches up coins as they bounce and roll. The lanky kid struts away. Heads outside to join his stocky companion.
She counts the change as she drops it into the cash drawer.
“Two dollars and seventy-three cents,” she says. “That brat shorted me twenty-five cents!”
I set the beer and the ice onto the counter. Watch lanky and stocky disappear into the darkness. Take the shiny 1973 from my pocket and give it to her.
She smiles a crooked smile. Hardly shows any teeth. I wonder what she’s hiding because Hannah’s smile is the same. Crooked and never wide because she’s got two falsies. Two upper fronts. Knocked out when she was just a kid. Playing Geronimo! On the playground swings. She’s had them replaced since then. New falsies that are supposed to be better, stronger, less noticeable, but they always yellow. Never match the real thing. And so, she’s lived a life of crooked smiles.
The cashier drops the quarter into register then rings up the beer and the ice.
“Anything else?” she asks.
“Two of those jerky sticks,” I say, nodding toward a big jar behind the counter.
She gets out the tongs, a wax paper bag, and puts three of the biggest sticks into it.
“Enough?” she asks.
“And a pickled egg,” I say.
She giggles. Flashes that crooked smile.
“You pregnant too?”
“No. But my wife is.”
She puts the egg into another wax bag. Tallies up the total. Finally, I notice her nametag. KATIE it says.
“How far along is she?” Katie asks.
“Due any minute.”
I take out money to pay and put it into her hand. She isn’t wearing a wedding band.
“How far along are you?” I ask.
“Too far.”
We exchange smiles. I gather up my goods and walk out.
When I get to the car I open the trunk and then open the cooler. One of the trout looks like it is still breathing, but I know this cannot be. I have knocked each of them in the head with the handle of the knife and I have gutted them. The fish have to be dead. I am only seeing what I want to see. Gills moving. Tail sliding back-and-forth. The fish still living. Free in the stream.
I dump ice onto the fish until I see them no more. Since there is room left, I put four of the beers into the cooler. The other two that I keep I will drink on the ride home. I shut the cooler and close the trunk. Stand in the parking lot, under the station lights, eating the pickled egg, holding the beer. Wanting to open one of them and guzzle it down, but decide not to. I can feel Katie looking at me through the window and it makes me feel like Hannah is there too. Watching my every move.


☼
Hannah and I had been drinking a lot at the outset of the pregnancy. It had worried her deeply.
“It’ll have Down’s Syndrome,” she said. “And what if the doctor says so? I can’t get an abortion, can I?”
She was curled up next to me on the couch, sobbing all over. I wasn’t sure of what to say, so I said nothing.
“You’ll resent me and you’ll hate me because we won’t have a perfect baby,” Hannah cried.
“It was only a few beers,” I said, as I took a drink from the bottle I was holding. “A little beer never hurt anyone. Especially not a kid. They’re resilient.”
“You don’t understand,” she said.
“What’s to understand? Everything will be fine.”
“You always say that.”
“And everything is always fine, isn’t it?”
She was silent, but I could feel that something was building inside of her.
“Hannah…”
She stood. Clenched her fists.
“You don’t even know me!”
“But I do know you and I know that you’re hurt and that you are worried and that…”
And before I could finish my sentence, one of her fists came at me.
I blocked the punch with my hand.
“Get out!” she screamed. “Get out of here right now!”
Veins spread out in her temples and her neck. Her eyes were wide as she glared at me. I moved forward to try and hold her, but she took another swing. This time she connected, landing her fist squarely on my cheek. I stepped away, and for a moment we were silent. Eyeing each other. Up and down. Two wild animals. Caged and forced to live together.
That had been our first argument. The first time she’d kicked me out. The first time I I’d disappeared to Avery for some time alone.

☼
I eat the picked egg. Get into the car. Glance over at the store window and Katie is there. Watching. I wave to her. Start the engine. She doesn’t wave back. I put one of the bottles into the cup holder and open the other. Take several long drinks. Cram it between my legs for safekeeping. Then move onto the road.
Yellow lines blur and dash alongside the car. The sky is more blue than black. Stars flash and twinkle. I don’t want to go home. I want to turn around. Head back toward Katie and Avery. To the stream and the trout. And I want to keep going. Beyond all I have known so that I can know more. More than Hannah. More than our married life. More than being alone. And suddenly, ahead of me, there is a small light in the road.
I slow the car. See the orange flames. And recognize the two shadows. Tall and lanky. Short and stocky. Standing at the fire. When they realize that the headlights are growing closer—slowing to a stop—they stomp out the fire. Throw down the milk jug. And run off through the ditch into the dark woods.
Stopped alongside the smoldering heap, I don’t get out of the car. With the windows up—pickled egg and beer on my breath—the stench still works its way into the car. And the sight of the opossum there—hair singed away, body black, legs drawn close together in a vain attempt to save the three babies that cling to her belly—strikes me so deep that I know it is something I will never share. Not with my wife when I get home. Shaking from the inside out. And I wrap and pack the trout into the freezer. And never with my child. As it rolls and kicks, thumps and turns. Makes simple honest attempts to get out of the womb. To the surface. To breathe. Hear. See. Survive and grow.

(copyright 2008 by k.j. stevens)

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