by Tim Tingle
“What is a opossum?” someone asked.
“It’s North America’s only marsupial, but it is best described as a big ‘rat-like’ critter. He has a snout, and a bare tail, and really does look like a big rat. They are notorious for feeding off road-kill, and as a result, they often become road-kill themselves. If you come to Alabama, and see a greasy spot in the road, it is most likely a opossum.
“Speaking of greasy spots, that reminds me of a good recipe for cooking opossum. Would you like to hear it?”
“Sure!”
“You start with a dead opossum, freshly killed. Now, this can be a little tricky, killing a opossum, because they are known for their ability to play dead. It is their best defense mechanism, playing dead. I have seen coon dogs grab a opossum in their teeth, and sling him around, and chew on it, and apparently leave it for dead. But the minute the dogs lose interest and walk off, the opossum quietly slips away. In the South we have a phrase for someone who is pretending to be dead. It is called ‘playing opossum’. So it is important to be sure that your opossum is really dead, because you don’t want him to come back to life inside your oven, because he can do some damage when properly riled up.
“So you take your dead opossum, put him on a white oak board, and place him inside a broiler. Use whatever spices you like, but one rule of thumb, the stronger the spice, the better, because it will somewhat kill the smell of the cooking opossum. Cook on 450 degrees for about 4 hours. This should roughly simulate the effect of being on hot asphalt for six days in the hot August sun.
“After the opossum is thoroughly cooked, allow it to cool, then carefully remove the opossum, still on the white oak board, and place it unto a large garbage bag. You don’t want any leakage, so it’s best to double bag it. Also double bag the broiler, and any other utensils used to prepare the opossum, and throw the opossum, the broiler and all, into a large metal garbage can. Be sure the lid is secure, because you don’t want the neighborhood dogs to get into it. And that’s it! A recipe for cooking opossum!”
“Wait a minute! You don’t eat the opossum?”
“Eat it? Are you crazy? If you can eat a opossum, your stomach is stronger than mine!”
The pub roared with laughter.
“Anyway, I got side-tracked. I was telling you about me and Greg catching a live opossum. We didn’t really know what to do with it, because there were so many good options. But we finally decided to put it in a mailbox, and scare the mail carrier. Our mail carrier was a woman who had said on numerous occasions that she was scared of mice. And what was a opossum, if not a big mouse look-alike?
“The mail carrier usually ran at 10 am, so about 9 am we loaded the opossum into our mailbox, ass-end first. This was easy, because he was ‘playing opossum’. But after an hour in that hot mailbox, he was ready to get out. From across the road where we were watching, we could hear the opossum scratching, trying to get out of the mailbox. So that by the time the mail carrier pulled her car window up to the box, and opened it, he was ready to come out. He shot out of there like a torpedo, right into her lap! She screamed. All she knew was that she had been attacked by a giant ‘rat’, and it was more than she could stand. Screaming, crying, and almost laughing, her mental stability sank like a torpedoed ship. She was never right again after that. We had a new mail carrier the next day, and he was cautious about opening our mailbox. Of course, we got a severe whipping over this, but it was worth it.”
Somehow the conversation turned to snakes, and one of the Brits told about an encounter he had the day before with a small brown snake in his garden. Everyone was terrified by his account, except Travis. “How big did you say he was?” The Brit held up his hands to indicate about a foot long. “You have got to be kidding! We have earth worms bigger than that in Alabama!” That started a flood of snake tales, as Travis told about five foot Rattlesnakes, and Cottonmouths as big around as his arm. And a six foot Chicken Snake that Janice found coiled up in her washing machine. (Of course, Travis embellished the tales, by exaggerating the size and ferocity of the snakes.) But the one that topped them all was when he told about an Anaconda he had seen in Peru that was crossing the road, and had to be almost 50 feet long. His audience was captivated in abject terror, listening to such tales. Even the bar-maids stopped work and sat down to listen to the tales, with chill bumps on their arms, to hear such unimaginable tales, for England’s only snakes are the small brown ones mentioned before.
A bar-maid, with bosoms that seemed about to burst out of her blouse, was terrified, and rushed forward to hug Travis, burying his face in her chest, saying, “Travis, ye must not go back to America, with all those terrible, terrible serpents! Ye must stay here in London where you be safe with us!”
Everyone roared with laughter, as Travis struggled, and finally succeeded in coming up for air. She kissed him on the forehead. “In fact, I think I have just enough room in me apartment for a writer, if you should decide to stay!”
“That’s mighty kind of you, Ma-am,” he said, as he pushed away from her impressive cleavage, “And I can see that you have a nice view, but I don’t think my wife would approve of such an arrangement!”
“Ah poo! Now you done it! You messed it all up by admittin’ that ye have a wife! I wasn’t even going to ask! Don’t ask, don’t tell, that be my policy!”
The Professor spoke up. “Welcome to South London, Travis! I dare say our ladies here can be as hospitable as your ‘Southern Belles’!”
“Aye, go on about yer way now! I don’t need no complications with yer wife! Truth be told, me husband wouldn’t warm to the idea either!”
Another roar of laughter rocked the pub, as she gathered empty pints. Travis emptied his, and sat it on her tray. “I think I’ll visit the water closet, fellows!”
“Need help getting there?”
“No, I think I can manage.” He got up and staggered that way, requiring the help of chairs, tables, and an occasional arm, to maintain his balance. His legs refused to carry him in a straight line. Once in the men’s room, he maneuvered himself toward the urinals, like a ship slowly coming into port. As he did so, he fumbled to unzip his pants, but was having unexplained difficulty. He leaned against the wall and relieved himself in the general direction of the urinal. He had to admit that he might be just a tad intoxicated. He thought the flow of urine would never stop, which led to a clear epiphany of a title for a future, as of yet, unwritten novel: ‘The Yellow River’, by Travis Lee. Or, should he decide to publish under a pseudonym, ‘The Yellow River’, by I.P. Freely.
He laughed at his own joke, which was a sure indication that he was indeed beyond his threshold of intoxication. He was feeling pretty good right now, but he knew that the next day was going to be feeling rough. And then, he would remember why it was that he did not like to drink. This was what social drinking usually led to with him.
Finally the Yellow River petered out, and he carefully performed the dangerous task of zipping up, without catching anything important in the zipper. This accomplished, he staggered to the sink to wash his hands, then went back out into the bar, where he saw, to his dismay, that there was yet another cold pint of Murphy’s sitting there waiting on him. Oh well, he was already wasted. Might as well drink another one.
“Travis.”
“Yes, Professor?”
“Let me introduce you to one of my colleagues. This is Alfred Tyler, and his wife Isabel.”
“Isabel! Now there’s a name with a ring to it!” They all laughed.
“Alfred and Isabel just arrived, and I was telling them about your story-telling prowess, and they are dying to hear you repeat the tale about the opossum!”
“I can do that.”
“Hey everyone, Travis is going to tell about the opossum again!” Immediately a crowd gathered, and Travis told it again. Though the second time might have varied from the first one, no one see
med to mind. Travis was about to excuse himself, to walk back to his hotel, because he vaguely remembered that he had a book signing the next day. That was when one of the nameless fellows walked up to him and asked a peculiar question.
“Eh Travis! Would you like to step outside and suck a fag?”
“Say again.”
“I say, I’m about to step outside an’ suck a fag. Would you like to join me?”
Travis was drunk, but he knew he wasn’t that drunk. Still he didn’t want to offend someone who obviously thought of the offer as a friendly gesture.
“No, I think I’ll pass on that, my friend.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure, yes. But don’t let me hold you back from your usual evening ritual of fag sucking.”
“There will be quite a few of my friends out there as well.”
Good lord, Travis thought, they’ve made it into a group activity here!
“No thank you. I just never have been much of a fag sucker, but please, you go right ahead.”
“As you will.” Travis watched as the fellow left the pub and joined a large group of Brits who were standing around on the sidewalk smoking. He wondered when this ‘fag sucking’ was going to begin. He was starting to think that he had misinterpreted something the fellow had said, so he turned to the Professor. “Let me ask you a stupid American question.”
“There are no stupid questions. Please.”
“What does it mean here when a man asks you to go outside and suck a fag?”
“It means that the Pub has a no smoking policy. See? There is no one smoking in the building.”
“Yes, now that you mention it. I didn’t notice it before.”
“It is a law here. A matter of public health, which is a good thing, because I am not a smoker.”
“So sucking a fag means smoking a cigarette?”
“Yes.”
“Thank goodness! I thought I was being invited to engage in oral sex!”
“Oh my, no!”
“I’m glad that is cleared up. You Brits have a different way of saying a lot of things.”
“Well, so do you Yanks.”
“I remember a few years ago, a friend of mine in Alabama, who dealt with antiques, was approached by a British woman, looking for particular antique items. My friend didn’t have what she was looking for, but he knew of a dealer in Chilton County who did, so he began giving her the directions to get there. He said, “Go down Interstate 65 to the Jemison exit. You will know it is the right exit, because there is a big water tower shaped like a peach.”
“Like a what?” she asked.
He figured she didn’t know what a ‘peach’ was, so he tried to give her a more descriptive image. He wanted to say it looked like a giant ass, but he thought that word might be a little crude, so he told her the water tower looked like a giant ‘fanny’. He said she gasped and commented, “My god! Why would they put such a thing on a water tower?”
My friend shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t know, I guess because it’s the major source of income for the County.”
This confounded her even more, and she said, “Such things should not be considered appropriate to display on the side of water towers and billboards and such. But then, Americans are, in general, crudely uncivilized!” She left in a huff, and greatly offended.
“Later my friend learned what the word ‘fanny’ meant in England.”
“Yes,” the Professor said. “It is a crude reference to the female vagina.”
“Right. So this British woman left thinking that the major source of income for Chilton County was not peaches, but prostitution!”
There was a roar of laughter, as Travis realized that he had more listeners than he was aware of. Isabel found it particularly funny. He would not have told such a thing in mixed company, if he knew so many were listening. This was yet another sign that he had too much to drink. “Folks, I think I have reached my limit, and I have a busy day planned for tomorrow, so I must go.”
They begged him to stay longer, but he insisted he had to go. A couple others were leaving as well, so they offered to accompany him to his hotel, saying that the streets of London could sometimes be dangerous after dark.
When he got to his room, he found his mother asleep, and Drew back from his walk, but still awake.
“Are you all right, Dad?”
“I’m fine tonight. Tomorrow may be a different story.” He staggered to the bathroom to get ready for bed.
He didn’t see the hand-written message his Mom had left for him beside the phone.
28
After stopping for ice cream, Miranda dropped Lennie off at his home. The big empty house loomed on the hill as Lennie got out of the car, thanking her for the ride to the doctor.
“Don’t forget your medicine, Lennie.”
“Oh yeah, I almost forgot.”
“Be sure and take them just like I told you. The directions are on each bottle.”
“I will. Thanks Miranda.”
As she backed up to leave, she watched him go into his empty house. She could relate to his loneliness, because since she won the Lottery, she seemed to be just as lonely. She didn’t see how Lennie could stand it, the loneliness, and now the burden of knowing that he had cancer, and that he didn’t have long to live. If he wasn’t so simple minded, he probably couldn’t stand it. It made her shudder to think of what he had told her over his banana split. ‘Miranda, you are the bestist friend I’ve got in the whole wide world!’ And the sad part was, he was right. She was not just his best friend, she was also his only friend. It was enough to make her eyes water. He was, without a doubt, the most sincere man she had ever met. If he wasn’t such a simpleton, and wasn’t dying, she would probably want to marry him! Yes, she was that desperate to find someone she could trust.
But as she pulled out of his driveway, she remembered that she had more pressing problems. Namely, what to do with the remaining parts of her last attempt at love. She could have kicked herself for not making sure that all the parts were in place before the pool cement was poured. Travis had been right, it was the perfect solution to what to do with the body, because no one would ever find him there. But now she had to deal with her mistake. As usual, when she really needed Travis around to advise her, he was gone off to who-knows-where! She had to devise some plan to dispose of the remaining two parts of the Judge. But that shouldn’t be so hard, should it?
It was disturbing that Lennie knew so much about what she had done. True, he didn’t know where most of the body was hidden, but he knew about the Judge being in her freezer. It was dangerous to have such knowledge in the head of someone so naïve and stupid. Under police questioning, he was sure to crack and tell what he knew, or at least let something slip that would point a finger back toward her. He was so darn helpful, that he was dangerous.
Incredibly, he had offered to help her, by taking the blame for the Judge’s death! Was that stupid, or what? What could he possibly use as a reason for killing the Judge? Lennie wouldn’t hurt a fly! It was absurd that he thought he could help her out of this mess, by confessing to killing the Judge himself. Stupid, stupid Lennie!
Listen to her! Who was she calling stupid? Stupid was the whole situation she found herself in, and it wasn’t anyone’s fault but her own. Travis told her it was stupid. Even Lennie told her it was stupid! And then Lennie had the laughable thought that he could help her out of this mess, by telling the police that he killed the Judge? Why would she, even for a moment, consider such a thing?
Hmm. Why not? Lennie was right. What could they do to him? He was dying anyway. He really does like me, and he wants to help me. He is willing to do anything for me, so why not let him? No, she felt horrible for just thinking such a thing. Travis was right. It’s my mess, so I have to clean it up!
“Ms. Monroe, I am proud to inform you that your pool is installed two days under the agreed upon deadline! The landscapers are finishing up now, but they will be finished by sundown.”
“Is it filled with water?”
“No, we need to let it cure out a couple of days before we fill it with water.”
“Then it won’t be finished for two more days, which is still meeting our deadline, but minus the bonus!”
The smile faded from the contractor’s face.
“What would happen, if you filled it with water now?” she asked.
“The weight and pressure of the water could cause stress cracks in the cement. And stress cracks could cause us to have to dig the whole thing up and start over.”
This sent an electric shock through her brain. “We certainly don’t want that,” Miranda said.
“No Ma-am, we don’t want that. It wouldn’t be ready for your pool party on Saturday.”
“So all I have to do to insure that the cement will cure properly, and not crack, is to wait two more days before I fill it?”
“Yes Ma-am.”
“Okay, I can live with that. Give me your bill, and I will write you a check.”
“Yes Ma-am, just one moment.”
As she went into the house to get her checkbook, she breathed a sigh of relief, that the job was finished. But even before she got her checkbook, she had to go to the back porch to be sure Leon was still in the freezer. She raised the lid, saw a frozen ear, covered it back up with a bag of English peas, and went to get her checkbook. She wrote the check for the agreed upon price, plus two days bonus, and the deal was finished. They loaded their tools and left Miranda to admire her new pool.
