43  

A REAL CARD

The moment they turned the ringer back on the next day, the calls started again.

“I’ll go get him,” Joey said. He took the phone out back, down the steps, and stuck his head under the deck.

“It’s for you, Oz.”

Oswald poked his head out from his wooden-crate house. He blinked. “Joey, please. I do appreciate your sense of humor, but I am awfully tired,” Oswald said.

Joey covered the mouthpiece. “No, for real. It’s for you.”

“All right, then,” Oswald said and dragged himself out from under the deck.

Joey left the handset with Oz and went back in the house. It was about midday. A steady stream of friends, relatives, and the press had been calling since seven. His mother came up with a response for anyone calling for an interview: they thanked them for their interest and told them Ann would get back to them within a week, as she needed time with her family. They thought this sounded better than ‘go away.’

Oswald came into the house holding the receiver in his tail above his back.

“Who was it?” Joey said.

“It was Mo. He’s quite a card, with his phony ‘I’m a Hollywood movie producer, I’ll send my guy over’ voice. I invited the raccoons around later for a garbage buffet, hope that’s all right?”

“Sure, but you can have dinner with us, you know,” Joey said.

“I appreciate that, Joey. It’s just that I’ve come to enjoy being more of an animal. At least a bit.”

It was midafternoon, and quite a crowd of Joey’s mom’s friends from work had come over. They were all joking and telling work stories.

“Hey, baby. Come here. I want you to meet these good people,” his mother said from the living room. Joey laced his way through the grown-ups.

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Joey said, relieved at his momentary escape.

A man in a suit holding a briefcase stood on the other side of the screen door. He looked too well dressed to be a cop, even a plainclothes one.

Joey popped his head back in the living room. “Mom? I think you better get this.”

“May I help you?” Ann said, Joey next to her.

The man extended a business card. “Hi. I’m Victor Lapling. I represent Rick Darning. I believe you’re expecting me.”

Ann looked at Joey, who shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what this is about.”

“I’m here for a Mr. Oswald Opossum. Rick called him earlier about making a movie. We were told to come over. I’ve got the contract right here. We’d like to fly him out tonight, if possible. You know what Hollywood’s like. You got to get in there first with a good story like this,” Mr. Lapling said.

Ann looked at Joey again.

“Oswald got a call this morning. He thought it was one of the raccoons joking around,” Joey said.

“Dang,” was all Ann said. She held the door open. “Please, Mr. Lapling, do come in. My son will get Oswald for you.”

Joey returned with the possum scurrying at his feet, talking a mile a minute about Mr. Lapling being “for real” and how this could be Oswald’s “big break after all!”

“I’m sorry, sir. The boy is a bit excitable,” Oswald said, extending a paw. “I understand you want to speak with me? Do you understand Animal?”

Mr. Lapling gave Oz’s paw a quick shake. “Yes, I do, as a matter of fact.” He smiled, and held out a sheaf of papers to Oswald. “We’ve got the contract right here for your consideration. We were hoping you could fly out tonight, to Hollywood, so we can start filming your biopic tomorrow.”

“Fly out? To Hollywood?” Oswald asked. The man seemed to be talking, but Oswald didn’t hear what he was saying. Instead, everything that had happened in the last few weeks played out in his head: his attempts at getting in the newspaper, all that went wrong, the amazing beings he’d met and all the things they did together. He’d forgotten all about his prior aims at fame—hadn’t even wished for it anymore. Then his eyes were drawn to the pen being waved in front of him.

“Mr. Oswald, do you want to sign? Are you all right?” Mr. Lapling said.

Oswald smiled as he took the pen with his back foot. “So sorry for my lapse. Just a little stunned is all—I never expected this!”