Frog (19 page)

“Whom”
“He died too.” “That he did. And maybe because of these wrists my father wanted me to become a dentist. Maybe all his sons had his strong wrists. Feel.” She does. “They're bony.” “But big. And forearms like his—these are forearms—big and thick too. Good for pulling tough teeth,” and pretends to start pulling out one of her teeth with dental forceps, but she flinches and looks afraid and he drops his hands. “And I really shouldn't tell you about the trashcan newspapers. We all hated that habit of his because sometimes when he brought them home they had spit on them and other awful things he didn't see. I remember once opening the
World-Telegram
, a newspaper, but let's forget it. He said that his fathers and uncles all learned to read English, our first language but not theirs—the language we're speaking now, you realize; the words—by reading an English language newspaper every day.” “Why not theirs?” “I'm sure they also read a newapaper in their language and probably first thing in the day.” “No, not that.” “Anyway, not the first thing, of course. That's just an expression. But in the morning after they got out of bed, washed, dressed, before, during or after breakfast or on the subway, trolley—ding-a-ling; trolley—or bus, if they didn't walk to work because it was near or to save on the fare.” “Not their newspaper but the language. Why, Mommy?” “Why? That English wasn't their first language?” “Yes.” “They came from another country which had different languages than ours, lived for the rest of their lives here. They had to work right away, even when they were ten years old almost, so couldn't go to school to learn English or not for very long. I think that's what my father said. But that's what I started out saying way before: that they learned English through the newspapers. So what, right? No great shakes, I know. And look how long it took me to get to it. Silly. But I'm almost sure it relates to my thinking before that there must be some good to newspapers, and that was one of them. Or was I speaking about comicbooks when I said that ‘some good'?” “You were.” “It could be newspapers too, then. But now—really, sweetheart, I just want to read this newspaper, so try playing by yourself awhile.” “You read the newspaper what's happening?” “Yeah, sure. Or just lie on your bed or sit in the chair there. Or I'll turn on your recordplayer if you want, but you have to leave me be for a few minutes—maybe more—meaning no noise, talking, OK?” “I can't play Bambi and Faline by myself.” “You'll have to.” “I can't,” and looks sad. “OK, I'll play for a minute or two, so long as I don't have to walk on all fours.” “What's all fours?” “Please, no more what's-thats after this. It's hands and feet, like deer do,” and gets up to demonstrate on the floor, but doesn't. “Or if there's any work entailed—involved—that I have to do—count me out. That means I don't want to play Bambi if working even a little bit hard is part of it. I'll only do it from a silent seated position,” and sits and picks up the paper. “Bambi reading the Deer News, okay?” “Yes, Bambi. Bambi,” looking around the room as if she can't find something, “do you know where Guri is?” “Who?” “Your daughter, Bambi. I can't find her and I'm afraid.” “That's your job, Faline. You take care of the children, I look after the forest. She's not in the newspaper, I'll tell you that.” “I know. Do you know where she is, Bambi?” “I told you, Olivia, I don't.” “I'm not Olivia. I'm Faline today.” “I don't know where she is, Faline. Now please, let Bambi finish the paper. He's had a long rough day running away from wolves, climbing out of ravines, posing for publicity shots for Disney Studios. Let him at least get through the front page.” “What's that?” “Come on, how could you not know what it is? This, this one,” slapping it hard. “Okay? The front page? You'll let me read it or just quickly peruse it?” “Sure,” leaves the room.

Peruse. She didn't ask him. She must feel sad now, rejected, very. Wishes he hadn't chased her out like that. Should go to her room or wherever she is. Suggest the recordplayer again. “I'll sit and listen with you awhile, explain what any part of the story means if you're unsure about it. And ‘peruse.' Don't you want to know what it means?” Or read her a few pages from a story. A whole story. “Choose the book. Take your time, I'll wait.” Hug her, pick her up, maneuver her legs so they straddle his waist and her head's just under his chin, kiss it. Tell her while he's holding her that he's agitated, a different word than agitated, because he doesn't know what to do with his time right now. Not that but some excuse. That he doesn't really want to read the paper and also doesn't want to sit at his desk and work. Some other excuse. Just say he's sorry, he loses control sometimes, lost it with her, shouldn't. “You know what flying off the handle means? That's what I did. I don't quite know where the expression comes from, but it means to suddenly get excited. People do that and your daddy's human too, right? Don't answer that. That was a line told by people who told jokes for a living a long time ago when I was just a few years older than you are now. Anyway, we talked, worked it out or almost, so it's now okay I hope.” Or suggest going outside with her, taking a ball, buying a fruit bar at the deli, doing anything she likes outdoors or in.

Statesman dies, rand drops, drought, Senate near adjournment, car bomb, airline folds, dispute temporarily resolved on microchips, bottom left news briefs of what's inside: high school basketball star signs for $7 million, aftermath of terrorist synagogue attack, parking unit aide reports corruption six years ago. Bottom right photo of the governor wearing a colonial hat. “Do I look silly? You bet I do, you big maligners, but you wanna be your party's presidential nominee in two years, you do it, true? I'll say.” Seal dies in Maine. For fifteen years the mascot of the watermen in the area. One lobsterman took his boat past the seal's rocks twice a day to feed him. There'll be a funeral and the seal will be buried at sea. What's this doing on the front page? Olivia might like the story other than for the dying. Continues on page 8. Doesn't turn to it. A regional treasure, someone could say. Brought in tons of tourist money, another could say. “Sidney was almost human,” someone else, “right down to his whiskers and kissing. Sometimes I thought his barking was like one of our own voices. I could make out real English words. He once told me, with the help of his flippers, the mackerel were jumping a mile from here, and was he ever right? Another time he said he saw a diamond ring in the water and I dropped a net down and got it first crack and sold it for a few hundred.” He lived about ten years longer than the average seal. “Human love and care, that's what did it.” Mayor will deliver eulogy. Top state officials and the head of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Department will attend. It'll be a secular service since the seal never professed belonging to any religious faith. Several local seals will play his favorite jazz numbers at the chapel. In lieu of flowers please make all donations to the Sidney Seal Foundation, a fund set up to permanently drop fish in his nesting place in the bay.

Gets up, shoves the newspaper through the lid in the kitchen trashcan, walks around the room a few times, opens the refrigerator, grabs a slice of pastrami and eats it, drinks straight from the cranberry juice jar—Denise would object, saying it set a bad example for the kids and might even be unhealthy for anyone else who drinks the juice—gets two mop buckets and some rags out, fills the buckets with warm water, adds ammonia to one of them, gets on his knees and cleans the floor, then dries it with paper towels. Looks in the freezer compartment, sees stewing veal there, cuts up celery, carrots, onions, potatoes, puts it all in a pot with some spices and herbs and water and starts a stew going. Is cleaning the kitchen counter he did the cutting on when he remembers. “Olivia, Olivia, come help Daddy in the kitchen.” Doesn't know what he'll ask her to do, but something. “Olivia?” Goes to her room. She's sleeping on the covers. Recordplayer's on.
Bambi
, not the Walt Disney version she has but a woman reading from the Salten book in an English accent. He sits on the floor beside her bed, puts his hand over hers, kisses her cheek, again. Stares at her. Way her long curly hair falls over her face, rests on the pillow. So beautiful. Red in her cheeks, pacific expression. So good, interesting, clever, lively, imaginative, everything. Not pacific but beatific. Overused, but nothing short of it. Should reduce the heat under the stew, must be boiling by now. Goes to the kitchen. Not boiling yet, waits, takes the paper out of the trashcan, since Denise will want to look at it, flicks some rice kernels and an oily lettuce leaf off it, flattens it till it looks not thrown away but well read over lunch.

_______

In bed, must be late, no car traffic outside, light coming in, been asleep, up, asleep again, hears a noise in the apartment. He's on his side, front to his wife's back, both no clothes, hand on her thigh. Kids in the bedrooms down the hall. Light noise again. Could be the cat. Whispers “Denise, you hear anything? Denise?” Doesn't say anything, still asleep. He's quiet, holds his breath, listens. Nothing. Lets out his breath, holds it again. Sound of feet. Something. Moving slowly, sliding almost. Sliding, that's the sound. Could be the cat doing something unusual. Slight floorboard squeak. Cat's made that too. Should get up. Scared. Cold feeling in his stomach, on his face. Has to do something, what, scream? If it's someone then that person might get excited, frightened, start shooting, let's say, knifing. He could be in one of the kids' rooms, at one of their doors. Gets on his back, holds his breath. No sound. Lets it out, holds it. Shuffling. Sure of it. Down the hall's wood floor, just a few inches. Shuffling stops, as if he picked up Howard listening. Now he doesn't want to tell Denise. She might jump, afraid, scream, panic, man could then panic, start shooting, knifing, clubbing, something, if there is anyone there. Should get out there to see. If it's someone, face him, but with a stick, knife, something, though without saying anything to Denise. For now let her sleep. Man sees her he might quickly shoot or knife him, feeling outnumbered, one to grab him, other to phone the police. Or just keep the gun or knife on her while he rapes her and Howard does nothing, stands there, saying to himself “Fuck it, I'll kill him, kill him,” kids watching too. Better to surprise him, and not have Denise spoil that surprise, and try to get him out or down. If someone's there. Concentrates on his ears, holds his breath. Nothing. Holds his breath. Nothing. Holds. Something. Shuffling. Inches. Even the sound of breathing. Almost positive. Light breath, as if trying to contain it, now no more. Lets his breath out. Stomach cold, neck sweaty, face cold, feels queasy, weak. But can't be weak. Must think of something. Where could the man be if he's here? Can't tell exactly by the sounds. Somewhere in the hall. Near one of the doors? The cat? Cats don't make that shuffling sound. Wind. Doesn't seem possible. All the windows are closed. Did it when he made the rounds before he went to bed. Maybe he forgot a window, upper or lower part, or didn't close one all the way. What else could it be but that? Wind blowing a paper down the hall floor. Could be. Cats can get frisky when they're asleep. Should find out. Has to. But must be ready to come upon someone, do something, shout, kick, jump at him, hit him with something, take a wound or blow but still try to disarm him and get him down. For he's in good shape and always was strong and as a kid a fierce fighter, so might be able to knock even a fairly big man down. Could probably knock most men down if he surprises them or in a fair fight. If he gets him down or wrestles the weapon away, if there's one, then what? Then hit him hard. In the face. Kick him in the face, in the balls, pick up his head and bat it against the floor. Hit him with the gun butt if necessary. Just hit him in the head with it or anything around as hard as he can, several times, lots, but make sure the gun, if there's one, doesn't go off. Knows little about them. Just pull the trigger with the barrel aimed at him even, for what's to know? Gun's cocked, uncock it, pull the trigger, gun goes off. If it's not cocked, just shoot. No bullets in the gun, bang the butt against the man's head. Do it, if it comes to it, if the man keeps coming, if there's a man, a gun. If it's a knife and he gets it away and the man keeps coming, same thing, stick it in him. Or just hold one or the other to him and say “Don't move or I'll shoot; Don't move or 111 stick it in you, right through you if I have to.” And have Denise call the police. If she's screaming, shout for her to immediately shut up. Yell out the window for help and at the top of his lungs for his neighbors to come. Break the window even to yell out of it. Noise will attract some; shouting, others. Ones right above are old, very, couldn't help, might not even hear. One below, new one with his wife, he'd come and help. He might even kick the man's face in and maybe shoot him, if they grabbed the man and told him not to move and he did. Something about him. Makes him think he even has his own gun. An accountant, moved here from a large home, kids in college, but he's a tough guy, he's talked tough and half of it against crime, what partly made them sell their house and move here: burglaries, couple of neighborhood rapes. But get out of bed now. Slowly, quietly. Find something to swing with. Best move. Be senseless not to. If the man has no weapon, he'd have the advantage. If there is a man there. Holds his breath. Nothing. Holds. Moving. Shuffling. Touching, something with his body. The wall, a door, and more creaking. That's it. Up.

Gets out of bed, his underpants off the floor and puts them on. In case he has to run into the public hallway or the street. Anyway, they're briefs and he'll be less vulnerable down there and also look stronger in them than with none on and everything hanging. A consideration. Might mean nothing. But he's big chested, narrow waisted, in the mirror he can look powerful. Looks around, room dark, little streetlight through the shade cracks is all. Denise asleep. He has nothing. Lamp? Won't do. Too big, won't swing. Then what? What's he have? VCR, TV, two of the same kind of lamps, night tables, rocking chair, Denise's typewriter on her desk, clamp lamp above it, would collapse on impact, framed photos and prints on the wall, dresser, drawers, clothes, shoes in the closet and under the bed, maybe her boots. Couldn't get a good grip on the leather tops. Night table, a foldup, on her side, probably lots of little things on it next to the lamp and books. Grab it by the legs and just rush the man. Or fold it up and wield it like a sledgehammer. Light enough to and in an open space he could really swing it. Goes around the bed, gets on the floor and unplugs the lamp, takes it off the table and sets it on the floor. Denise stirs. He stops. She lifts her head, turns it to him. He bends down to her ear, puts his hand over her mouth. “Shh,” he whispers. “Don't speak. I think we're being robbed. Almost sure of it. I'll handle it, shh.” She takes his hand away. “What are you doing?” she whispers. “Shh, shh. I'm going to use the table on him. Just in case. Don't worry.” “Don't,” she says; “wait; let me think.” “The kids. No time. I have to. It'll be OK. Get up quietly and stand by the phone. Don't pick it up. Then when I say to, call the police. Shh. No other words. No questions.” He puts the books on the floor. She gets off the other side of the bed. He brushes the things off the table into his hand. Earstuds, paperclip, pencil, spool of thread but no needle in it, feels around, no needle on the table, used tissues, face cream, sea shells, what feel like nail clippings, puts them on the bed. She's by the phone on the VCR. For a few seconds her hands over her face. “Shh, don't cry or let on you're here,” he whispers; “important.” Picks up the table by its legs, takes a deep breath but not to hear, lets it out and yells “I'm coming, you bastard—Call, call now,” he whispers; “911, but quietly—You better get the hell out the way you came in and quick. Now out, get, out.” Hears movement, feet going, running. ‘There's someone.” “Police,” she says low, “we need help. A burglar in our apartment.” Gives the address, name, phone and apartment numbers. Both kids screaming. “Stay away, you fucker,” and runs down the hall holding the table straight out in front of him. Man's not there. “You OK? It's Daddy,” to Olivia. Her room's dark but she's nodding, now crying. Man's not in the bathroom. Goes into Eva's room at the end of the hall. She's standing in her crib screaming. Goes into the hall leading to the living room, feels the front door. Still locked and chained. Looks through the hall door into the kitchen. Nobody seems to be there. Walks down the hall to the living room, table in front of him. “I'm coming. I can kill you. I have a gun.” “Don't say that,” Denise says from somewhere in back. “You came through the kitchen, get out that way.” The man runs from the living room into the dining room, then into the kitchen. Howard follows slowly. “Get out, get out.” Can't see his face. Just a silhouette of him. Tall, thin, bald or hair cut close or skull shaved or wearing a stocking over his face. Running sound as if he has sneakers on. Tries to open the kitchen door to the fire escape. Why'd he shut it? Must have been the way he came in. It was locked when they went to bed. Must have shut it so the wind wouldn't wake them, wind or cold. Something. Door can get stuck. He's trying to pull it open. “Fucking-ass door. What's with it? Fuck you then,” turning to Howard at the dining room door. “I'll kill you first if you come for me.” “Just go and no killing,” keeping the table straight out. “Fuck you, man, you haven't got nothing but that fucking board. Probably cardboard. Now back up. I've got a knife bigger than you.” Howard backs up, table still in front of him. The man holds the knife out and starts to him. “Listen, just go out through the door over there on your right and we'll forget it.” “Yeah, why?” “Just unlock and unchain it, that's all, and leave. You've time.” “Give me all your money and I'll go. I'm not going without your money. Get your fucking wife to get it, and fast.” “There's nobody else here.” “You crazy?” “Just my little kid; that's who you heard.” Still coming. What to do? Backs up. “Police are on the way. I set off an alarm second I heard you. I've been robbed here before. I know what to do.” “Sure. And you got an alarm, you got money. Come on. Wasting my time. Fast.” Anything to throw at him? Shout and he might leap at him with the knife. Fingers the table behind him for something to throw. Maybe the bottle of wine if they didn't put it away. Little silver wine holder; too light. Salt and pepper shakers, kid's boardbook, place settings, baby's spoon. Guy's too close. If he darts either way to get away the knife could reach him. Lunge at him with the table, then drop it if it doesn't knock the knife away and run into the living room. Throws the table at him, runs, knife slashes his shoulder, nicks his arm. In the living room he remembers the stick to hold the window up lying on the sill. Grabs it. Blood all over the place but so what? Man's in the living room. No pain, isn't weak, cuts don't seem deep. Swings the stick back and forth, blood spattering the window and walls, and says “Fuck it, now I've had it. Get out—111 bust your goddamn head in,” and runs to the fireplace and grabs the wood Japanese statue off of it and swings both in front of him. “Bullshit, you can't do anything. Get your money—come on.” “Help, police, someone, a burglar here, a killer,” he shouts and then knocks things off the shelves with the statue and stick to wake Gil downstairs, get him here. Runs to the floor lamp behind the armchair and turns it on. Denise is screaming in back, kids screaming. For a few seconds he can't see anything. Man's rubbing his eyes too. Young man. Shaved skull. No stocking. Late teens, maybe twenty. Long tight upperarms, enormous hands. Black nylon undershirt. Bright celestial design-circles in circles—in the middle of it. Big teeth and awful face. Taller than he thought. Six-one, -two. Knife out. Long enough to go through him. Like a hunting kinfe. A survival knife he thinks he's seen it advertised as. “You dumb prick,” the man says. “Get the kids in a room, Denise, and lock the door,” he shouts behind the chair. “Get it closed. Any room. The bathroom. It has a lock, you hear? Do you hear?” “Yes,” she yells. “What're they doing?” the man says, looking down the front hall. “Are you locked in?” Howard shouts. “Just about,” she says. Man rushes down the hall. Howard runs after him with the statue and stick. Door slams, locking sound. “Take what you want now,” Howard says to his back and runs into the kitchen, drops the statue into the sink, kicks the bottom of the door, pulls the door loose, gets on the fire escape and down the ladder and drops to the ground.