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Authors: James P. Blaylock
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eased open the window, and stepped out. Thank goodness there wasn’t much of a slope. He pulled the bag out after him, left it lying on the roof, and edged down the asphalt shingles toward where the pole lay tilted against the house, hidden by the foliage of the camphor tree. There it was.
He pulled it up through the leaves, scraping it over a limb, and then set it on the roof with the noose in front of him. The moon wouldn’t be up for an hour yet; last night he had learned that much, anyway. The ‘possum cooperated admirably. Dead ‘possums tell no tales, he thought, grinning. He tightened the noose around its neck, and, towing the pole behind him, crept toward Aunt Naomi’s window.
It was closed. Of course it would be. She wouldn’t want any more marauders. Last night had been enough to put the fear into her. Andrew slipped a hand into his back pocket and pulled out a long-bladed spatula, then shoved it through the gap between the two halves of the ill-fitting casement windows. It was the work of an instant to flip up the latch. In the hot, still night there wouldn’t even be a breeze to disturb the sleeping Aunt Naomi.
If there was trouble, if she awoke again, he could just let the ’possum lie and drop the pole back down into the tree. He’d go across the roof and climb down onto the carport, and from there onto the top of his pickup truck. The library window was wide open, and there was a pile of bricks outside it. He’d be reading in his chair inside of two minutes, and all they’d find on the roof would be a dead ’possum. He had thought it through that afternoon—studied it from the street. It was as if Providence had come round to set it up: the bricks, the ’possum, the pole already lying beneath the tree; all of it had been handed to him with a ribbon tied around it. But if his luck held, he wouldn’t need to use the escape route. It would be a neater job all the way around if he could plant the ’possum in Aunt Naomi’s bedroom and let her find it in the morning.
Nothing stirred inside. Aunt Naomi snored grotesquely; the cats slept through it. He slid the pole in through the window, barely breathing. Dropping the ’possum onto her bed would lead to spectacular results, except that she’d probably wake up on the instant and shriek. Near the door—that would be good enough—as if the beast were trying to escape, but hadn’t made it. He positioned the pole just so, paused to breathe, then played out the line. Immediately it went slack; the ’possum whumped to the floor, and Andrew hauled the pole out into the night.
He pulled the casement shut and slid along on his rear end toward the tree, dropping the pole down through the leaves so that it rested on the same branch that it had been tilting against all day. Crouching, listening, he counted to sixty. The snoring continued, uninterrupted. She hadn’t even stirred.
He crept back to the casement, pulled out his spatula again, and pushed the latch back into place, neat as you please. In a moment he was back in at the window, shifting Pickett’s telescope, shoving the ’possum bag in behind the foil-backed insulation stapled into the unplastered studs. He tiptoed back down the narrow stairs, washed his hands in the kitchen sink, and opened a beer to celebrate. It was 12:13 by the clock, and he’d already accomplished a night’s work.
Far too full of anxious energy and anticipation to sleep, he lay down on the couch with the idea of reading a book, and in a half hour got up to pour himself another glass of beer. He read some more, half-heartedly, his mind wandering away from the book, until he found himself studying in his mind the complexities of coffee mugs. That led him on to silverware and to copper pots and pans and enormous colanders suitable for draining twenty pounds of fetuccini. He dreamed about extravagant chefs’ hats, about his wearing one, standing in front of an impossibly grand espresso machine that was a sort of
He pulled it up through the leaves, scraping it over a limb, and then set it on the roof with the noose in front of him. The moon wouldn’t be up for an hour yet; last night he had learned that much, anyway. The ‘possum cooperated admirably. Dead ‘possums tell no tales, he thought, grinning. He tightened the noose around its neck, and, towing the pole behind him, crept toward Aunt Naomi’s window.
It was closed. Of course it would be. She wouldn’t want any more marauders. Last night had been enough to put the fear into her. Andrew slipped a hand into his back pocket and pulled out a long-bladed spatula, then shoved it through the gap between the two halves of the ill-fitting casement windows. It was the work of an instant to flip up the latch. In the hot, still night there wouldn’t even be a breeze to disturb the sleeping Aunt Naomi.
If there was trouble, if she awoke again, he could just let the ’possum lie and drop the pole back down into the tree. He’d go across the roof and climb down onto the carport, and from there onto the top of his pickup truck. The library window was wide open, and there was a pile of bricks outside it. He’d be reading in his chair inside of two minutes, and all they’d find on the roof would be a dead ’possum. He had thought it through that afternoon—studied it from the street. It was as if Providence had come round to set it up: the bricks, the ’possum, the pole already lying beneath the tree; all of it had been handed to him with a ribbon tied around it. But if his luck held, he wouldn’t need to use the escape route. It would be a neater job all the way around if he could plant the ’possum in Aunt Naomi’s bedroom and let her find it in the morning.
Nothing stirred inside. Aunt Naomi snored grotesquely; the cats slept through it. He slid the pole in through the window, barely breathing. Dropping the ’possum onto her bed would lead to spectacular results, except that she’d probably wake up on the instant and shriek. Near the door—that would be good enough—as if the beast were trying to escape, but hadn’t made it. He positioned the pole just so, paused to breathe, then played out the line. Immediately it went slack; the ’possum whumped to the floor, and Andrew hauled the pole out into the night.
He pulled the casement shut and slid along on his rear end toward the tree, dropping the pole down through the leaves so that it rested on the same branch that it had been tilting against all day. Crouching, listening, he counted to sixty. The snoring continued, uninterrupted. She hadn’t even stirred.
He crept back to the casement, pulled out his spatula again, and pushed the latch back into place, neat as you please. In a moment he was back in at the window, shifting Pickett’s telescope, shoving the ’possum bag in behind the foil-backed insulation stapled into the unplastered studs. He tiptoed back down the narrow stairs, washed his hands in the kitchen sink, and opened a beer to celebrate. It was 12:13 by the clock, and he’d already accomplished a night’s work.
Far too full of anxious energy and anticipation to sleep, he lay down on the couch with the idea of reading a book, and in a half hour got up to pour himself another glass of beer. He read some more, half-heartedly, his mind wandering away from the book, until he found himself studying in his mind the complexities of coffee mugs. That led him on to silverware and to copper pots and pans and enormous colanders suitable for draining twenty pounds of fetuccini. He dreamed about extravagant chefs’ hats, about his wearing one, standing in front of an impossibly grand espresso machine that was a sort of
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