Frog (14 page)

He goes into the bedroom with another glass of wine, reads while he drinks. He gets through paragraph after paragraph, several pages. The book isn't interesting but he is reading. He feels sick, tired, turns off the light and shuts his eyes, sees pictures, flashing. Watch out, and he runs to the toilet and throws up into it. Drinks some more wine and throws up some more. He rinses his mouth, throws water on his face, pats his face, slaps it, pulls his head hair till a couple of patches come out, scratches his arms till blood comes, grabs his cheeks and squeezes hard as he can, but they don't hurt. Bangs the dresser top till his hands hurt. Kicks the door till his foot hurts. Screams “Screw it, hell with it, all of it, damnit, rage, goddamn rage, goddamn crazy rage, page, inexplicable, indespicable, indesquickable, immicterial, bloody, ruddy, fuddy doo-dah income, nincom splage. Something else, schmelse, belsh.” He feels dizzy, just makes it to bed, falls on it, reaches for the phone on the night table, doesn't know whom he'll call if anyone or what he'll say if anything, passes out.

_______

He's walking down the stairs in his apartment building when he hears voices on the first floor. He sees two policemen and a priest. “Is anything wrong?”

“No,” one of the policemen says and turns back to the priest.

“I thought it might be one of the people living here. Is it Carl?”

“Carl?”

“The superintendent. He's been ill, hasn't looked well for months. Emphysema, for one thing, besides working too hard for a guy his age and smoking, to make it even worse.”

“I don't know about your Carl, but nothing's wrong here. We're just talking to the father.”

“Only because—I mean I know I'm probably overdramatizing this—but suddenly seeing a priest and two policemen in your building—”

“I'm having dinner here,” the priest says. “And these officers, who are my friends, happened to see me enter the building and stopped to speak to me.”

“Oh. Sorry for interrupting you then. Have a good dinner,” and nods to the policemen as he passes them, and leaves the building.

He's walking downstairs when he hears voices coming from the ground floor. Men. Laborers? Something wrong? It's the tone. Burglars? A mugging going on? He goes down slowly. Two policemen and a priest, talking low to one another. “I say no,” the priest says. “And we, with all due respect, but we make no apologies for asking this, think you should go along with it,” one of the policemen says. “Well, that's what we're here to discuss then, right? That we can be frank and civil about it is even better,” and he slaps both policemen on the arm.

“Excuse me,” Howard says.

“Yeah, what is it?” the other policeman says and they all look at him as if they only just noticed him, though he's been on the bottom step for almost a minute, five feet from them.

“Is anything the matter?”

“What? Between us? Nothing. Thank you,” and looks at the other two.

“I meant, two policemen and a priest in the building. I thought it could be one of the tenants.”

“One of the tenants what?”

“Sick, in trouble—dead, even; I didn't know. Just, it was very startling to see you.”

“I'm sure all the tenants are fine,” the priest says. “I'm looking in on someone here, and the two policemen wanted to speak to me.”

“We saw him walking in here and had something to say to him,” the first policeman says. “Nothing about any of your tenants, so don't worry none.”

“It's just that, well… one can't help thinking that…Mrs. Harlan on the top floor is very old and never gets out—”

“It's Mrs. Harlan whom I'm looking in on,” the priest says. “But she's OK, I spoke to her a short while ago, so my visit is only routine, all right?” and he looks at the police and takes an envelope out of his jacket pocket.

“Maybe we shouldn't have a look at it after all,” the first policeman says.

“That's what I've been telling you all along. We could have saved ourselves ten minutes arguing about it here, and a few phone calls before this,” and he laughs and puts the envelope back into his pocket.

“Well, good afternoon,” Howard says and smiles at them and leaves the building.

He's rounding the second floor when he hears voices downstairs. He stops.

“Definitely we should have acted sooner,” a man says.

“And if we did, what then?” a second man says. “It wouldn't've changed things. It all ends up at Pickle Creek.”

“One's either too early or too late but never on time,” a third man says. “Nothing we can do about it though, and nothing we learn from it will help us the next time around.”

He continues downstairs and sees two policemen and a priest. “Hello.”

“How do you do, sir,” the priest says and the policemen nod at Howard and resume talking almost at once.

“If, if, if,” one says. “I'm sick of it.” “Then let's drop the whole freaking thing,” the other says.

“You boys really mean that?” the priest says. “Because if you do, then at least we came to something constructive today.”

“Excuse me, but is anything wrong in the building?” Howard says.

“What could be wrong?” one of the policemen says.

“I don't know. Two policemen and a priest standing, midafternoon, in the hallway of a small apartment building? The priest dressed all in black—”

“This is the way I always dress outside.”

“But also the two policemen here. When you're all together like that-”

“We're friends of Father Keiser,” the other policeman says. “And we've official business to discuss with him.”

“So it's not Mr. Spady in that apartment? He's been rushed to the hospital twice in the last couple of months—maybe more, I'm not quite sure.”

“It isn't Mr. Spady,” the priest says. “I was on my way to the mall, the policemen saw me from their car and wanted to talk. It was too hot to stand on the street or sit in the car and talk—”

“We would've given you a lift, Father. We still could.”

“No, I need the exercise badly—So, when we saw someone entering your building, we said ‘Why don't we do that too?' and we came in here. That's the only reason—to get out of the sun. Now if it's all right with you, sir, thanks for your interest, but these men are very busy and we have to finish our little talk.”

“Yes of course, I'm sorry,” and he leaves the building.

He's walking downstairs, thinking of the work he wants to do and how he might start it, when the sight of three men stops him. A priest in a black suit and two policemen in white shirts with no jackets. Something about the bright light on them from the hallway window, making the shirts seem illuminated and the suit look as if it has a white outline around it. They're talking low, stop, look at him a few seconds and continue talking low. He can't make out what they're saying, but by their looks he can see it's something very serious to them. Then the priest slaps his hands, keeps them clenched and says “Don't worry, leave it to me. It'll turn out aces, I guarantee it.”

“There's never a guarantee with something like that,” one of the policemen says.

“Excuse me,” Howard says. “Is anything going on in the building that I can be of some assistance to or that as a tenant here I should perhaps know about?”

“What could be going on?” the policeman says.

“Just that you three men here. It's not the kid—maybe I shouldn't say this.”

“No no, go on, what?”

“The young man above us—our apartment. I mean, I don't want to start anything, but it's only that he has been in trouble with the police before that made me bring it up. They've been here a couple of times the last year, so I thought—Just that, well, when you live in a building with your family—even alone, if that's the case—and there's one guy who occasionally acts like a punk and once or twice has been one too—”

“Wait, you mean the Huffman kid?” Howard nods. “Right, for a moment I didn't realize what building we were in—Drugs, selling them,” he says to the priest, “and supposedly ripping off a bike in this or the next building a few months ago.”

“The next one, which is the sister one to ours,” Howard says.

“Anyway, all straightened out now, I heard—You know the Huffman kid, don't you?” he says to the other policeman.

“No, who?”

“Long hair, kind of stringy, dirty. Tall, hefty, really fat-faced kid we came here or the next building to see about that bike, and maybe last year also, winter.”

“You probably came here for him but to the next building for the bike owner,” Howard says.

“I wasn't on with you either time,” the other policeman says.

“I don't know the young man either,” the priest says. “But he has nothing to do with our being here,” to Howard, “nor does anyone in the building, far as I can tell. And we do have to finish our talk…”

“Sure, certainly. And I'm sure I shouldn't have said anything about the Huffman kid.”

“Why not? Neighbors should look after neighbors, so long as they're not being nosy; and if there's wrongdoing, to do what they can to discourage it. That's all you were doing.”

“I suppose. Thank you,” and he goes past them.

He's walking downstairs when he hears men on the first floor and then sees two policemen and a priest. “Excuse me, is anything wrong?”

“No, we're just talking,” the priest says.

“It's only that you all look so grave. For a moment I thought it could even be my daughter at nursery. She goes to the one over there at First Lutheran Church.”

“I'm a Roman Catholic priest.”

“Of course, I'm sorry. Also, I didn't really think it seriously, that something was wrong about my daughter. It was just something that came all of a sudden when I saw you.”

“It isn't your daughter, don't worry,” one policeman says.

“I know; but someone here?”

“Nobody regarding anything grave,” the priest says. “I was returning something to a member of my church,” and he nudges a shopping bag on the floor with his foot, “and the officers were talking to me outside when it began to rain.”

“Oh, it's raining? I better go up and get an umbrella. Excuse me,” and he goes upstairs.

He's walking downstairs when he sees two policemen and a priest. Priest is in a black suit, clerical collar, has white hair. Police are jacketless and in long-sleeved white shirts, black ties held down by clips, no hats. One's leaning against the radiator, other's against the wall, both with their arms crossed, listening to the priest. The priest stops talking when Howard approaches them. “Good afternoon,” he says.

“Afternoon,” the priest says. The policemen nod, arms stay crossed, look at him, he thinks, as if he may be the one they've come to see.

“Something wrong in the building?”

“Nothing's wrong, everything's right, thank you.”

“But having the police and you—”

“We're just—”

Walking downstairs. Hears voices from the second floor. Men's. Three to four, it sounds like. Stops halfway down to listen. Garbled, can't make out a word. Maybe it's a foreign language. But he knows a few foreign languages, or two fluently and parts of others. Nothing. He goes all the way down. Two policemen and a priest. Priest is gesticulating with his hands and head. Police are shaking their heads animatedly. “But we have to,” the priest says. “Not on your life,” one policeman says. “I also have serious reservations,” the other policeman says. “No, we have to, that's all there is to it,” the priest says.

“Anything wrong?” Howard says.

“Wrong, how?” one policeman says.

“In this building. Maybe on this floor. Is anything the matter?”

“Yes, now that you mentioned it,” the priest says.

“Father. It's supposed to be strictly official,” the policeman says.

“Why? Maybe this man knows something—You live here, don't you?”

“On the second floor. Howard Tetch. With my family. What is it?”

Suddenly he sees two policemen and a priest. They look at him, come straight toward him. “What? Is it my wife?”

“No, why would it be?” one policeman says.

Two policemen and a priest. “May I help you?” Howard says. They hurry past him. “Excuse me, but is anything wrong?” They keep going, don't look back at him, he starts after them upstairs. They go down the hall, stop at his door and ring the bell. “That's my door. The bell doesn't work. And you don't have to knock. I'll let you in if you want. Nobody's home though. My wife's out with our kids. Is it something about them? She took the car.” The priest says something to the policemen, walks toward him, the policemen stay behind.

Priest and two policemen. “Yes?” he says. “Well, tell me.”

“It's true,” the priest says. “I've some news for you, very bad news. Give me your hand, sir.”

“No.”

“Perhaps one of the officers can stand beside you while I tell you.” One of them does. Howard steps away, looks at the priest who's now telling him something, runs out the building.

Two policemen and a priest. “Hello,” he says. They nod. He snaps his fingers, says “Excuse me, I think I forgot something,” and goes back upstairs and unlocks his door.

“Leave something behind?” his wife says.

“No, nothing. Then what am I doing back here, right? Oh, I don't see why I shouldn't tell you. One of the oddest things just happened to me downstairs. I was on my way out—well, you know. Going to the mall. All very innocent. When I heard male voices and then saw two policemen and a priest on the ground floor and I didn't want to pass them. I actually made up an excuse to them to get back here.”