Dinner was over and so I pushed my chair back with a little groan. My wife, Anny, burped quietly into her napkin. We had spent the evening with the Marchs, a couple who had only been our acquaintances before this dinner. We hadn’t known them, at all, before tonight and there was an awkward first-dateness about the whole thing.
The Marchs made more money than we did, and therefore had nicer cars and took better vacations than we did. Of course, their stories were more interesting than ours, because of all the fascinating places they had been. I could see that my wife had been somewhat charmed by Arthur March and his tales of safari in Kenya, et cetera. Not to be outdone by her husband, Hilde March had somewhat charmed me by telling me a scandalous story about some of their travelling companions, and, while careful not implicate herself or her husband, there was a certain glee in the telling which disclosed their hand in the matter.
We fell in love with the Marchs a little bit that night, and it was probably for the best that we wouldn’t see them again.
Hilde was serving the coffee when my wife said, “Oh my,” and holding her hand to her throat, “I don’t mean to alarm you but, there is a giant rat outside your window.”
From where I was sitting I could see that she was at least partly right. What appeared to be a giant rat was an opossum. It did have a long, rat-like tail, and a rattish nose, but with longer hair, and without the sleek, sinister bearing of a rat.
“That, my dear, is not a rat. In fact it is not even a rodent, but is, a Virginia Opossum. A marsupial,” said Arthur with authority.
The opossum was eating cat food from a dish that had been placed there by Hilde for the March’s own pet cat.
“Well it certainly is as ugly as a rat,” said my wife. Arthur laughed with a dash too much spirit and knew it when he stopped. My wife being possessed with wonderful comic timing and a coquettish naïveté, which is not entirely genuine, smiled, while Hilde and I exchanged glances. There was a note of accusation in hers that I hoped was absent from mine. After all, I couldn’t prevent my wife from smiling sweetly any more than Hilde could prevent Arthur from acting the charming, worldly gentleman. Each of us was constrained by our role, and yet managed to stretch it around our true selves, and further, to contort it to reveal something nearer the truth.
“Chase it away Arthur,” Hilde implored.
“It’s not bothering anybody,” he said noting Anny’s interest.
“It’s bothering everyone,” she said. “Now chase it away, please.”
“It’s not bothering me,” said my wife. “It just startled me. I don’t think I’ve seen an opossum before.”
“You see,” he said with satisfaction, “It’s not bothering her, she is intrigued.”
We all stood by the dinning room window watching the opossum eat the cat food. Hilde’s disappointment was rising while other things slipped away.
Arthur went on to explain to my wife the habits and nature of the Virginia Opossum, Latin name, Didelphis virginiana, as we all came to learn. The opossum was introduced to North America via California. Its name comes from the Algonquin, wapathemwa, although I wasn’t clear how. It has the uncanny ability to ‘play possum,’ an ability by which it expresses a complete and devoted portrayal of death, even under mounting duress. Arthur presented these facts as though he had known them his whole life. One might have presumed that Arthur March had been raised by opossums. The truth, as I understood it, was that he had recently seen this opossum, out this very window, eating cat food, much as it was doing now. He had done a little research, which was still fresh in his mind, and was now my wife’s foremost expert in all things to do with the Virginia opossum in particular, and marsupials, more generally.
When the opossum had finished eating the cat food it moved off. From where we were watching we saw it make its way across the lawn and out to the curb. Under the streetlight, it crossed, when with startling speed a car roared out of the dark, and straight at the opossum.
The opossum was illuminated briefly as the car approached, and then hidden completely as the car drove over it. When the car had gone the opossum rolled over and over.
We all gasped.
My wife squealed with excitement, “Is it dead?”
“It must be,” said Arthur.
“Perhaps the car passed over it without touching it,” I offered.
Hilde was horrified. Her dinner party was going wrong in many directions.
“Somebody must go and look,” said my wife, looking at Arthur, “what if it’s hurt, shouldn’t someone put it out of its misery.”
“Quite right,” said Arthur, “it would be inhumane to let the thing suffer.”
“We won’t know unless we look,” I said.
“I can’t bear it,” feigned my wife.
“I had a cat once. Wonderful animal. I spent hours speculating as to whether it might be alive or dead or both, if you can imagine,” I added, not really trying to be helpful.
“Erwin, please,” said my wife, “this is serious.”
We all gathered outside near the curb, and looked at the opossum. It was still. It wasn’t bleeding or visibly maimed. It looked perfectly intact and whole, except for its unnatural stillness.
Arthur nudged it with a toe. It didn’t move. Arthur slid a shovel, which he had fetched from the shed, under it, and dragged it over to the curb so we wouldn’t be standing in the middle of the road. The fate of the opossum stood as a manifest reminder of the importance of road safety.
“Well, is it dead?” said my wife.
“I’m not sure,” said Arthur. “You can usually tell by looking at something whether it is dead or not.”
“Sometimes it is how you look at it,” I suggested.
“Suppose you hit it with the shovel?” said my wife.
Throughout our life together I rationalized my wife’s veiled cruelty as an indifference born from expedience and practicality. The vermin she encountered in and around our own house were dispatched with an enthusiasm that I felt easier overlooking.
“Well then we’ll be sure,” she explained, sensing our gathering dismay.
“It can’t have survived,” said Arthur. “It has been hit by a car. It rolled nearly twenty-five feet.”
Arthur was looking for a way out. He didn’t want to hit the opossum with the shovel. No one, but my wife, wanted him to hit the opossum, nor could we see a good reason why he should. If he didn’t his esteem, in the eyes of my wife, was mortally wounded. He had spent the evening cultivating her admiration. It would be as though the safari in Kenya was no more an adventure than a ride on the number six bus.
“If it is dead then hitting it with the shovel won’t do it any harm, and if it’s not then we’ll be sure,” said my wife.
“It doesn’t seem to be suffering,” said Hilde, ignoring my wife. “Just let it be, Arthur.”
“It could be ‘playing ‘possum’ couldn’t it Arthur?” said my wife. “It could really be hurt.”
Just then, as though it understood that the argument was not going its way, the opossum stood up and trundled off across the street.
“I’m so glad we didn’t have to put it out of its misery,” said Arthur.
“It’s limping, the poor thing,” said my wife.
