he old man next door was turning on his sprinklers when I went out to get the newspaper after waking up. He said, “Morning, Gail.”

             I picked up the paper from my bottom step, looked over at him, and nodded. We both wore bathrobes, his over pajamas and mine over a flannel nightgown. A cold breeze lifted his thin white hair. The light over the top of his house was the color of fireplace ash.

             I read the paper and sipped coffee while Gus whined at my feet, his tail thumping the floor. I ignored him for as long as I could until I finally dressed, clipped on his leash, and let him pull me out the back door. We followed our usual path up towards the bay. Gus tugged and sniffed at the grass between the sidewalk and the curb. We went a few blocks before he took care of his business and I tied off the little plastic bag when I’d cleaned up after him. We reversed our direction, and I led him down the first alley we came to where I saw a trash can outside an open garage. I dropped the bag in and turned back toward the sidewalk, but Gus strained at the leash and made a low, steady growl. I looked where he was and saw a trap just inside the garage, up against the wall next to a tool bench. The trap was a large one made for rats, that had been baited with a big dollop of peanut butter. It had sprung shut, breaking a female possum’s neck. She lay dead on her side with her swollen teats pointed in our direction. A litter of baby possums were clustered behind her rump, their black eyes like tiny marbles just visible in the dimness. One snarled and hissed. Gus barked and lunged at it, but I yanked him back against my foot.

             “No!” I told him. “Stop it!”

             I shivered against a dull flush that spread up through me. I looked around the garage and tried to think of something to do in response. A car took up most of the garage’s space. Through the window in the door at the front, I could see a small patio leading to the back of a house that was dark and still. I returned my gaze to the baby possums, put the fingertips of my free hand over my lips, and shook my head. Then I pulled hard on Gus’ leash and tugged him back to the sidewalk.

 

When I got home, I stood in a hot shower for a long time. I tried to chase away the memory of those tiny possum eyes, but it kept returning. I re-dressed quickly, got my watercolor supplies together, and drove down to the bay. I’d just retired after thirty-five years of teaching at the end of the previous school year, took painting classes over the summer, and had begun venturing out on my own to various spots earlier that fall. I set up my easel and folding stool in the same spot I had several days earlier, in a little park above the harbor. I forced myself to concentrate on the painting I’d started: several mooring boats, still water, a bridge and gray sky in the distance. Despite my best efforts, those eyes kept coming back to me, close-knit and filled with terror. White heads, gray bodies about four or five inches tall, and long, pink tails. I’d counted a half-dozen. What would happen to them now?

 

After about an hour of struggle, I took out my cell phone, got the number for Animal Control, and called it. I explained what I’d come upon that morning and asked if they could do something about the baby possums. The woman I spoke with said she was sorry, but they didn’t do that sort of thing. She hung up before I could reply. I sat blinking at the phone in my hand. Then I tucked it away and walked down to the water’s edge. The marine layer had begun to rise and dissipate. I knew I would soon lose the muffled light I’d been trying to capture in my painting. But I just stood there anyway, looking off over the water, and feeling even more alone.

             On my way home for lunch, I drove into the alley from our morning’s walk. The garage door we’d come upon was closed when I pulled up next to it, but there was a series of windows on it at eye level. I got out of my car, peered through the glass, and scanned the interior. The car that had been parked there was gone, and so was the trap with its dead possum. The day had become bright with sun, and the light inside was plentiful, but I could see no sign of the babies. I checked both exterior sides of the garage, as well, but saw nothing there either.

 

That evening, I took along a handful of dry dog food on my walk with Gus. The garage door in the alley was still closed, so I sprinkled it behind the trash can there. Gus tugged to try to get at it, but I pulled him away. Before we left, I saw a heavyset man pass between a lit window and a refrigerator at the back of the house that belonged to the garage.

             I flipped through channels on the television when we got home trying to find something that would keep my interest. After a while, I gave up and turned it off with the remote. I was sitting on a corner of the couch with Gus curled up against my hip. I looked out the window next to me, stared at the yellow globe of light on the pavement from the streetlamp on the corner, and allowed my thoughts to tumble over themselves.

             Perhaps twenty minutes passed before I got up and went into the bedroom that had been my son’s. It had been a long time since I’d gone into it. I flipped on the overhead light and went over to the bureau. I picked up the framed school photograph on top, of him from twenty years earlier; he’d been eight at the time. I brushed off the dust that had accumulated on the glass, then  returned the frame next to the small urn I’d kept of his ashes. Gus had followed me into the room. He looked up at me with his head cocked.

 

The next morning on my walk with Gus, I found the dog food I’d sprinkled behind the trash can untouched. I added another handful that I’d brought along. The garage door was still down with the car back inside, and the little bit I could see of the house was dark again. I studied the sides of the garage again for depressions or holes I might have missed, but didn’t see any. The same sort of dull flush climbed up inside of me.

             My painting efforts that morning were unproductive again. I filled the afternoon hours grocery shopping, at the library, and paying bills, then took my evening walk with Gus a little earlier than usual. The dog food behind the trash can in the alley was still there, so I kept the new handful I’d brought in my sweatshirt pocket. The garage door was down, and I could see the parked car inside through the row of windows. I looked at the back of the house and saw the man from the night before pass by the same window. I tasted a tinge of blood and found myself biting my lower lip.

 

I led Gus down the alley, up the sidewalk, and around the corner to the front of the house with the garage. It was a small bungalow like my own. All the windows in front were lit and the porch light was on. I walked up to the front door, took a breath, and rang the bell. After a long moment, the door opened, and the big man I’d seen stood there with a paper napkin tucked into the collar of his t-shirt. He looked down at Gus, then at me, and said, “Yes?”

             “This is Gus,” I said. “I was walking him in your alley yesterday morning and your garage door was open. He started tugging at something in the back corner of it and I saw a trap there. A possum had been killed in it.”

             He nodded slowly. “That’s right.”

             “And there were babies. Six of them.”

             He shook his head. “Not when I got to the trap. Just the dead possum. Nothing else.”

             “Are you sure?”

             “Yes, I am.” I watched his eyes sadden. “That trap wasn’t intended for a possum. It was for a rat I’d seen scat from in there. I left the garage door open that night with the trap baited thinking it might be lured in.” His bottom lip seemed to tremble. “Instead I caught the possum. I wish I hadn’t.”

             I nodded. His t-shirt had crawled up his big stomach. I thought he was probably in his mid-thirties, about the age I was when my son had passed away. I reached into my sweatshirt pocket and took out a few kernels of dog food. I showed them to him and said, “I left some of this for the babies. By your trash can. It wasn’t eaten.”

             He looked from my hand to me. “That was you?”

             “Not eaten,” I repeated. “So, I don’t know what’s happened to them.”

             A little sob caught in my throat, and then I was whimpering. The man stepped out of the doorway and wrapped an arm around me. I closed my eyes and leaned into his hug.

             “Hey,” I heard him say. “I bet they’ll be okay.”

I nodded into the softness of his chest, and choked back another cry. Gus barked twice at my feet.

             “Come on,” the man said quietly. “Please stop.”

             He opened his arm and took a step back. He removed the napkin from his shirt collar and handed it to me. I nodded again, wiped at my eyes with the napkin, then blew my nose into it.

             I said, “Thank you.”

             “Do you want to come inside? I could make tea or something.”

             I shook my head. “No, we’re sorry to have disturbed your dinner.”

             “Don’t be. I’m glad you stopped by.”

             Gus whined, and the big man leaned down to scratch his head. As he did, Gus licked at his hand. When he straightened back up, I said, “Well, we better get going.”

             “So, you live around here?”

             I gestured with my head. “A couple of blocks down and around the corner.”

             “Maybe we’ll see each other again, then,” he said.

             “Maybe so.”

             He nodded and opened the door. He hesitated, then said, “I’m really sorry about that possum.”

             “I know you are.”

             He nodded again. I watched him go back inside and the door close slowly behind him. He didn’t turn off the porch light. I took another step back and balled up the napkin into my empty sweatshirt pocket. The sound of a single chair scraping against linoleum came from inside the house, but no voices. My eyes swept across the low bushes along the front looking for movement or tiny eyes in the wash of light, but I saw nothing. I took the dog food out of my other sweatshirt pocket and scattered it at the base of the closest bushes; I thought it couldn’t hurt, and I knew the man inside wouldn’t mind. Then I tugged once on Gus’ leash and led him back to the sidewalk. I looked up into the ink-wash sky before we continued on our way. There were a few stars out and a partial moon. I wasn’t sure if it was waxing or waning, but I was glad to see it there.