Oswald, the Almost Famous Opossum

by Sara Katherine Pascoe

  Oswald waited for them to climb the tree and into their hollow before venturing out.

  The next three days, through Monday, went much the same for Oswald. He would walk out from the big tree in what he thought was a straight line, marking his path with twigs, only to find the twigs in curves and swirls when he retraced his steps. Plus, all the streets and houses started to look the same, and none of them were Perry Street, where Joey lived. At least he was getting to know where all the best garbage cans were.

  By Monday morning, Oswald decided it takes a well-adjusted animal to know when to ask for help. He came out of the shrub as the raccoons walked across the grass toward their home.

  “Good morning, kind sirs—” Oswald started.

  Chuck rushed up and hugged him. “You’re here! You’ve decided to stay!”

  “Oh brother,” Mo said and rolled his eyes.

  “Are you OK?” Tiny said.

  “Well, as a matter of fact I could use your help. I was wondering if you might call Joey, I mean Mr. Joseph Jones, on your cell phone?”

  “Sure, no problem,” Tiny said and retrieved the phone from their den.

  “Can I do it, please? Please? I LOVE pushing buttons,” Chuck said.

  “You certainly do,” Mo said.

  Tiny held the phone above their heads. “I’ll do it—what’s the number?”

  Oswald coughed and spluttered. “I am ever so sorry for the unnecessary inconvenience. I just realized that I don’t need to make the call after all.”

  “Uh-huh. Don’t know the number, do you?” Mo gave a long whistle. “You are a piece of work, man. You really are.”

  Oswald was stunned into an uncharacteristic silence. This was not the first time he’d heard this about himself. He wasn’t sure exactly what they meant, but the words felt like a bruise without a punch, like a sting without a bee. He made his excuses and wandered off.

  “Hey, Oswald. Don’t take Mo seriously.” Chuck trotted after him.

  But, saying he had a headache, Oswald excused himself and waddled off into the thick undergrowth of the grassy park.

  By Tuesday morning, Oswald started to panic. Joey’s project was due in a little over a week. Not only that, but he was sure the other animals at Miss Ann’s house would be a bit lost without him by now. Plus, Oswald needed to find someone with a newspaper to read the Animal Watch column tomorrow. His poetry would no doubt be in it.

  He swallowed his pride and approached the raccoons.

  “Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in,” Mo said. They were walking back from their night’s food sojourn.

  “Good morning, good fellows. I can assure you, no feline, domestic or otherwise, dragged me anywhere.”

  After a number of discussions about where Perry Street might be, which all ended with the raccoons either rolling about in the grass laughing, or climbing into a nearby garbage can for a snack, Tiny thought to use their cell phone. It took a few tries, during which they kept bumping heads, as the three raccoons all tried to see the map on the phone at the same time. It turned out Perry Street was close. But to get there, you had to cross busy Eastern Avenue.

  “OK everybody, ready to go find Perry Street? The dumpsters in that neighborhood are famous—wouldn’t mind checking them out afterward,” Tiny said. Chuck and Mo nodded their agreement, and they all fell in line behind Tiny. They padded down Twenty-Fourth Street then onto Randolph. It was evening, the time a lot of humans came back from work, as far as Oswald understood. A few people nodded hello, but none spoke Animal. Most ignored them. After about ten more minutes, they reached Eastern Avenue. The cars whizzed by. It might as well have been the Nile River filled with crocodiles—Oswald started to feel faint.

  Three times, Tiny tried to get the others to follow him when the coast was clear, but by the time they all reached the curb, a car or truck barreled through, blowing their fur back.

  “Gentlemen, I must warn you, I think I’m about to faint, it is ever so . . . embarrass . . . ing.”

  Chuck rushed over and caught him by the shoulders.

  “Oh, there you go again, getting too involved,” Mo said. Mo argued with Chuck, who laid Oswald down under a bush.

  Then Tiny pointed to something hanging above the street and exclaimed, “That’s it. That’s the answer!”

  They all looked where Tiny had been staring. People walked to the edge of the sidewalk and stopped, looking upward. Then at the same time, without any of the humans saying anything or giving any sort of obvious signal, they all crossed Eastern Avenue. Every car, bus, truck, and van stopped and waited in line while the humans crossed.

  “I get it,” Tiny said. “Look, that thing controls the cars!”

  “What thing? Oh, that thing? I thought it was a Christmas decoration they forgot to take down,” Chuck said.

  Tiny sat on the edge of the grass by the sidewalk and studied the “thing” and the people, as though he were a National Geographic wildlife photographer. The others huddled at his sides.

  Another human walked up and joined others standing on the sidewalk. They all stared at the thing. The brightest light changed position, from the top to the bottom—Green, one of the few colors raccoons can see. The people walked across the street.

  Tiny charged ahead. “Come on, this is our chance!” Chuck, Mo, and Oswald fell in line. One woman gave a little shriek; another said, “How cute.”

  On the other side of the road, the raccoons all high-fived one another then, seeing Oswald’s distaste, they each shook his paw. They discussed this amazing technology that stopped cars, but cut it short when Oswald looked up. “That’s where I live!”

  With Miss Ann and Joey’s house in sight, Oswald broke into a run. Tiny, Mo, and Chuck loped after him, hooraying and whooping. Oswald stopped in front of the house, causing a raccoon pile-up on top of him and setting the threesome off, laughing once again. Oswald untangled himself from the animal heap and extended a paw to Tiny.

  “Thank you, thank you, all.” He gave a little bow. “You’ve been ever so kind, in spite of my . . . ” He cleared his throat. “My, um, not always being as gracious, as . . . well . . . I might have been.”

  The porch was vacant except for an empty glass. Yellow light came from the living room window. Mr. Edwards was on his porch next door in his old wicker chair.

  “I’d offer you some refreshments, but I don’t have much on paw,” Oswald said, hoping they wouldn’t stay. He had lots to catch up on and was, well, exhausted.

  “Do you have any grapes? I love grapes!” Chuck asked, doing a little jig.

  Tiny grabbed Chuck by the elbow and led him away. “Why don’t we stop by another time?” Tiny said. “You’ve got our number, right? Give us a holler. We’ll do something sometime.”

  “Yes, I will call you, gentlemen. I would be delighted to see you again.” Oswald thought he might even mean it.

  The raccoons turned back toward Eastern Avenue, discussing where these famous dumpsters might be, and Oswald started up the stairs. He needed to tell Melvin everything that had happened and find out what he’d missed. But Melvin was nowhere in sight, and the house was now completely dark. Then it dawned on Oswald—maybe they’d all forgotten about him by now. Maybe they had got on with their lives without him.

  10

  THE VOICE OF THE STORM

  “Oswald, Oswald, OSWALD . . . ”

  Oswald dreamt he’d won a great poetry prize and everyone was chanting his name. He walked on stage and took a deep bow. When he opened his mouth to give his thank-you speech, he was drowned out by people shouting his name.

  “Oswald. OSWALD . . . ”

  He was flattered, but after a while he thought, How rude, and tried to quiet the crowd. But the words wouldn’t come out of his mouth.

  “OSWALD.”

  Wait. Someone was calling his name, over and over again.

  “My goodness, do I have to do everything around here?”

  He groaned out of bed, combed his face, and checked his tee
th in his reflection in the shiny can lid Joey had nailed on the wall for him. He posed at different angles, considering the best photo for his first book of poetry. But the chanting continued. He squeezed out of the front door of his crate and climbed out from under the deck.

  Oswald blinked in the morning sun. On top of the fence between Joey’s and the Edwardses’ backyards floated the head of a large, whiskery dog. From the dog’s mouth came: “OSWALD, Oswald.”

  Oswald trotted to the edge of the deck nearest to the fence. “Good morning, dear Zola. It’s good to see you, too. But please, you mustn’t make such a fuss.”

  The back door to the house opened. Melvin slithered out, followed by Miss Ann, then Joey.

  “Hush, Zola. Stop all that barking,” Miss Ann said.

  Zola stopped, cocked her head to one side, and sat down, her head still visible above the low fence.

  “Yo, Oswald. You’re back!” Joey punched the air, stopping when he saw his mother’s face.

  Melvin settled on the warm wood of the deck, between Joey and Oswald. “Hey, Oz. How you doing?”

  “I’m fine, thank you very much. I’ve been away doing research for my poetry—”

  Melvin arched an eyebrow, looked right at Oswald. “Right. Animal Control took you to a regular old poetry party. I bet. Win any prizes?”

  Miss Ann looked at Joey. “How can you be sure this is the same possum? They promised they’d relocate it.”

  Oswald cleared his throat. “Him, not ‘it’.”

  Joey’s grin was almost as wide as an opossum’s. “I know it’s him.” Joey continued, “You can identify individual possums, well, the kind we have here, Didelphis virginiana, by the patterns of black and white on their ears. And they’re immune to snake venom, and they can’t get rabies, and their babies develop in their pouches like kangaroos, and—”

  “All right already, Joey,” his mom said.

  “And they can wrap their tails around tree branches, but once they’re grown, they can’t really hang by their tails, and then there’s their really cool opposable big toe, like our thumbs but on their back paws—”

  “JOEY!”

  “Right, sorry.”

  “I’m off, guys. Got to go to work as usual. If that’s all right with everyone?” Miss Ann looked at each animal in turn, then Joey, then shook her head. “What am I doing? I’m getting as bad as you, talking to the animals.” She lifted Joey’s wrist and tapped his watch. “Twenty minutes, mister, and you’re off to school.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Can I eat my breakfast out here?”

  “I guess so, but no feeding that creature. Understand? And don’t forget to lock the doors behind you.”

  Joey shared his breakfast with Zola, Melvin, and Oswald, while Oswald told them all about his adventures on the other side of Eastern Avenue. Joey’s face changed expression as Oswald told him about the scary parts (being dropped in the “untamed forest”), the funny parts (the three raccoons), and the interesting parts, like the raccoons having a cell phone. Oswald started to tell them about the fascinating signaling device hanging over the intersection, when Joey looked at his watch and jumped up.

  “Tell me all about it after school. I gotta go.” Joey ran back into the house, leaving the dirty breakfast dishes behind and tipping over Melvin’s bowl. The clatter roused Zola, who had moved to her spot in the Edwardses’ backyard and dozed off. “Nice to have you back, Oswald. See you all later.” She meandered into the Edwardses’ house.

  “Let’s bring this stuff in, so Joey doesn’t get into trouble,” Melvin said.

  Oswald pushed the breakfast dishes through the cat flap while Melvin held it open with his back.

  They couldn’t open the dishwasher and decided against turning on the faucet to wash the dishes, in case they forgot to turn it off. So they licked the dishes clean and put them away. Oswald had forgotten how nice it was to work with Melvin.

  Afterward, the two settled in the study. Oswald chose a sunny patch on the carpet for a nap. Melvin took the armchair. The rest of the day poured over Oswald like maple syrup over warm pancakes. All the regular things seemed extra nice. Joey came home from school. Melvin kept Joey company while he did his homework; Oswald relaxed in the yard. Joey and his mom had dinner, and Joey snuck some lasagna to Oswald.

  After dinner, Zola joined Oswald and Melvin to watch the world go by from the front porch.

  “Everything seems lovelier than I remember,” Oswald said.

  “Yes, the bad times make the good ones shine. Don’t you think, Zola?” Melvin said.

  The sky darkened with thick gray clouds, and a wind whipped up.

  Zola looked as though she were watching a movie that no one else could see. Different expressions washed over her scarred face. Zola wouldn’t talk about her past—Oswald thought this was stubborn of her.

  “Yes indeed,” Zola said.

  Evening birds darted through the air, squirrels climbed trees; it seemed everyone was readying for the storm. The crickets were silent.

  “Anyway, as I was saying, my adventure could not have been more fruitful.”

  “Yes, possums like fruit. I’ve never enjoyed it much myself,” Zola said.

  “What? No, it’s an expression,” Oswald gently corrected.

  “Here we go,” Melvin groused.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Isn’t it Wednesday today?” Oswald said.

  “It is. I’ll get the paper.” Zola trotted back to her house and nosed the screen door open. Melvin sat in the front yard, doing what looked a lot like nothing.

  “Melvin, might you be so kind as to go get Joey?” Oswald said. “You know I have trouble reading the small print in newspapers.”

  Melvin sloped off toward the back of the house.

  A few minutes later, the four reconvened on the porch.

  Joey shivered and looked at the sky. “We better hurry.” Charcoal clouds blocked any sign of the moon or stars.

  They settled into their usual places on or around the table. Joey got up and switched on the porch light. The wind jabbed them with chilly blasts. The newspaper flapped.

  “Can’t you find it? Maybe it’s a headline,” Oswald said.

  Joey leaned on the pages to keep them from blowing around.

  “Well?” Oswald yelled to be heard.

  “I’m looking as fast as I can. Here it is.”

  As Joey was about to read Animal Watch, the page jerked up on a gust of wind.

  “No! Joey, get it,” Oswald said.

  “What am I supposed to do—fly up and grab it?” Joey hollered. The four friends looked up, helpless. The paper danced on the wind, up, up, up—then disappeared into the darkness.

  Seconds later, there was a sound of tearing newspaper, and a thump on the roof. Then a sound, like a sad saxophone. You could smell the coming rain. Melvin’s fur stood on end. Oswald felt a faint coming on, and crumpled onto the tabletop, unable to move his limbs. Joey lifted his possum friend and tucked him into a basket in a far corner of the porch. He could still hear and see, but he couldn’t make a sound. Melvin meowed by the door, his eyes as big as pies. Joey creaked it open, and Melvin slithered in. Zola stood at attention, hackles up.

  The skies opened.

  Over the storm, the sounds started again, like hopelessness without words. Melvin pressed against the living room window, looking out.

  Zola nodded toward her house. “I’ll go get Mr. Edwards. He’ll bring his ladder.”

  The rain blew in. The temperature dropped. More eerie sounds came from above.

  The screen door opened. Miss Ann stood silhouetted in a slice of light, her red curls a halo above her straight shoulders. “What in the Lord’s name is going on out here?”

  Joey shrugged.

  Mr. Edwards appeared out of the darkness holding a ladder, Zola by his side.

  “Evening, Miss Ann.” He leaned the ladder against the porch roof and tested it. Zola sat down, her face slick with rain.

  “Honestly, Mr. Edwards, let me climb up
there. Did Joey put you up to this?”

  “No, I’m all right. Something’s landed up there—sounds like it’s hurt.”

  “At least let me spot you.”

  The odd sounds continued.

  They all watched as Mr. Edwards disappeared up the ladder.

  “You all right up there?” Miss Ann said, but he didn’t respond.

  Mr. Edwards made his way down, cradling something about the size of two footballs, a mix of white, gray, black, and pink.

  He stepped onto the porch, and Joey pulled out a chair for him.

  This was the last thing Oswald remembered before the faint took him over completely. Looks like an extra-large football with feathers on it. Probably some ill-advised child’s idea of a joke, was the last thing he had a chance to think, and then he was out.

  “Is it alive?” Joey said.

  Mr. Edwards nodded.

  “I’ll be right back,” Miss Ann said.

  After a moment that was quiet except for the voice of the storm, Miss Ann returned with the blue plastic laundry basket and towels. She settled herself in the other chair with the basket on her lap. Mr. Edwards arranged the large bird in it. It held its head under its wing and trembled. Miss Ann stroked its feathered back.

  “Everything’s going to be all right. Don’t you worry, now.”

  After a few minutes, she started to sing an old lullaby. One by one, the others began singing along. Zola added the gentlest of howls. The bird stopped trembling, took its head out from under its wing, and joined in with the same sad sounds as before. There were tears in everyone’s eyes. Everyone except for Oswald, who remained in a faint in the basket.

  11

  A BIGGER STORY

  The next morning, Oswald awoke to the sound of people on Miss Ann’s porch. There was a man with a camera and a woman. They both had ID cards around their necks. The woman rang the doorbell.

  “Will this be an Animal Watch story?” the man asked.

  “I don’t know. It could be bigger. We’ll see,” the woman said.

  Miss Ann opened the door.