Night Games
written by: Arvilla Fee
The first night I met Charlie, as I came to call him, I’d escaped out the back door during the mother-load of all fights. Mom and her boyfriend-of-the-week had begun yelling, which I could’ve handled, but when dishes and knives started flying across the kitchen, I ducked out into the alleyway behind our duplex. Cold to the bone because I’d left my jacket inside, I began throwing a basketball into the hoop. Bam—hit the backboard. Bam—hit the backboard. All of my rage and teenage angst were absorbed by the sound of ball on board. The hoop had once had a net, but it had been cut down by a gang of boys three years ago.
I hated living here. Bam—backboard. I hated Mom’s boyfriends. Bam—backboard. I hated—but suddenly I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye. Fur. Paws. I stopped, holding the ball close to my chest in case I needed to lob it at a feral beast. At first I thought it was a cat, climbing as it was up the side of the trash can, but as it turned, I saw the dark face mask, then the rings on its bushy tail. A raccoon! I’d heard they could be dangerous, attacking dogs, cats, even humans, but it largely ignored me and lifted up the garbage lid with its little hands as though it had done so a thousand times. I took a step back and launched the ball at the hoop, thinking it would skitter away. It didn’t.
The raccoon calmly retrieved a half-eaten apple, sat on the closed can next to the one he’d opened, and ate the apple like a toddler. I laughed out loud. He peered at me and moved back over to the nearly full can. I’m not sure how long I stayed there watching him, but when I could no longer feel my fingers and toes in the frigid February air, I opened the back door and stepped inside, leaving him to his meal.
For weeks, months even, we’d see each other in the alley almost every night. I’d noted he was a male, obvious reasons, and he was always alone, which I knew wasn’t unusual for male raccoons. He would eat; I would play ball. I’d made up my mind to call him Charlie after my favorite childhood book, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and I’d narrate my games for him, telling him how many points I had, how many fouls, and if the refs were being unfair. He’d listen as he chewed, looking for all the world like he cared.
That summer, after graduation, I began taking out fresh food, when I could get it, things like whole carrot sticks or uneaten apples. One night, I inched towards him as he stood on the garbage can, carrot held in my outstretched hand. “Come get it, Charlie,” I said. Then I squeezed my eyes shut, afraid he might bite me, and I’d end up with rabies. But he didn’t. He simply took the carrot, stood on his hind legs, and ate it, wrinkling his black nose. Then sniffed my hand.
I was about to stroke his head, but Mom’s three-boyfriends-later boyfriend came stomping out into the alley, screaming, cussing, and kicking the trash cans. Charlie leapt off the can and landed right on Chad’s—Brad’s—whatever his name was—neck! The man screamed, tore Charlie off, and threw him like a curveball against the concrete face of the alley wall. I screamed, too, then huddled next to Charlie’s body.
“You killed him!” I screeched! I felt my face flush and clenched my hands into fists.
Letting off a string of expletives, Chad/Brad thundered, “GOOD RIDDANCE! DIRTY RABID BEAST!” He went back inside and slammed the door.
I knelt down beside Charlie again, and his back leg twitched. My eyes opened wide, and I rubbed his side, his head, his ears. Charlie began stirring, then shook his head as though waking from a bad dream. I was stunned, and without thinking, I gathered him up and held him against my chest, murmuring words of encouragement.
That was the last time I saw the alley. The back of the duplex. I took one final look at the basketball sitting near the goal post, put Charlie in my beat-up Honda, and drove away.
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