The Myth of Wile E

Civil Disability

I was still putting the final touches on the apple tree memoir when the three un-schooled kids decided to pay me a visit. I didn't hear them knock because of all the noise, so I startled at the sight of three small faces peering through my living room window, their noses squashed against the glass, their eyes parenthesized by cupped hands.

"What are you doing?" I asked the un-schoolers as I yanked open my door. The faint scent of French fries wafted in.

"We came for some more pawpaws," said the future stockbroker.

"I did a book report on them," said the future hedge fund manager. "Did you know the seeds have a chemical people make into lice shampoo? Lice are gross. I heard if you go to normal school everybody has lice."

"That's not true," said the future chairman of the Federal Reserve.

"I mean, what are you doing on this side of the fence?" I said.

"We climbed it, duh," they told me.

"But there's no trespassing. You'll get in trouble."

"No, you'd get in trouble," said the future hedge fund manager. "If we do it, people say, 'Kids will be kids.' Mom calls it 'kid privilege.'"

"You should be with a responsible adult," I told them. "You could get hurt. There's all these big machines and stuff."

"Really? We hadn't noticed," the future stockbroker said with a not very subtle eye roll.

"Mom's up there, distracting the security guy so we could sneak in," the future hedge fund manager said. "She said it's like an act of civil disability."

"Disobedience," the future chairman said.

The future stockbroker said, "Are there any more truffles? Mom wants to know."

"Oh."

I went into the house and came back with the dirt-filled shoebox. The remaining truffles were shriveled and even worse-smelling than before.

"I think maybe they went bad," I said.

"How can you tell?" asked the chairman.

"I don't know."

"How much?" the future stockbroker said.

"I guess you can just take 'em. Consider it 'spoilage.'"

The littlest kid, the future hedge fund manager, wasn't paying attention to the rest of us anymore; she was staring toward the disheveled woodpile and silently screaming with her hands against her face like that kid in the movie who got left home alone, or that painting about the screaming guy. I looked in the direction she was staring, just as the future chairman of the Federal Reserve turned that way and shrieked, "A rat!"

But it wasn't a rat. It was the possum, trapped on the other side of the fence and cornered by the rear end of a backhoe, which was edging towards her. Disoriented, she careened against the fence, unable to find a way through. I don't think she was apple-drunk this time, just dazed from being woken up during the day, and blinded by the sunlight. She was probably trying to get to her den near the woodpile. I realized that I'd also put my hands to my face like the little girl, only I was hollering out loud as the massive tank-treads of the backhoe rolled closer and closer to the frantic possum.

I'm sure the backhoe driver had no idea the possum was behind him as he backed up to scoop at a tree stump. Trespassing be damned, I threw myself onto the chain-link fence and climbed up and over it, running to the front of the backhoe and waving my hands wildly. I tried to shout over the noise of the machine, pleading with the driver to stop backing up.

Finally the machine went quiet and still, and the driver yelled, "What the hell's wrong with you! You tryin' to get yourself killed?"

I ignored him, and ran around to the back of the machine. He climbed down out of the cab after me, still yelling. "I said, you tryin' to get killed, you tree-huggin'—"

Then he saw the three kids, all with their eyes wide with horror, and their mouths covered like the Speak No Evil monkeys. Two fence panels had been knocked askew by the backhoe. The compost pile had been flattened and impressed with tread marks. The possum had not been flattened, but was nevertheless lifeless on the ground, tongue hanging out, froth pouring from her mouth. She stank because she had soiled herself. As far as I could tell she had died of fright.

"Aww . . . poor li'l guy," the backhoe driver said, and his bearded chin quivered. He took out a handkerchief and pressed it to his face, making quiet little choking sobs. "I never meant to kill nothin'."

The possum's babies were nowhere in sight.

I remembered hearing once that if you ever found a dead possum you should check the pouch for live babies, in case they were old enough to be saved. But I couldn't remember what you were supposed to do after you rescued them. Take them to a possum orphanage? Find a possum wet nurse? I certainly couldn't imagine going through that goat milk ordeal again, especially if I was living on Gladys's couch in the suburbs of Los Angeles.

As the kids and the backhoe driver looked on, I lifted up the possum's pouch (a bit squeamishly, I admit) and peeked inside. After a moment, I saw just what I had been dreading: Eight pink, bald, wriggling babies, no bigger than jelly beans, were suckling like the world's tiniest pigs. I knew there was nothing I could do. They were much too little.

I closed the pouch and looked at the expectant faces.

"Nothing," I said. "Empty."

All four of them sighed with relief.

I scooped up the foul-smelling possum, which was heavy as a cat, and carried it through the broken fence to my own yard. The oldest kid held up his phone to me, and I wondered, Did he really expect me to talk to someone at a time like this? Then I heard a dull clicking noise over and over and over.

I laid the possum next to her den and draped a bandanna over her. I decided to bury her there after the kids had gone home.