Frog (2 page)

Anyway, he told Denise what he first thought about her when he first saw her that night. Not that night told her. A week or so later. A month. After he told her she said “You know, when you came in”—in so many words, just as his thoughts and talk were—“and started taking off your outerclothes, I thought ‘Nice-looking enough, that guy. This prearranged? If it is, good going, Sandy. For once you might come close to hooking me up. He looks fairly intelligent too. No dresser though. Almost a slob. Not a big problem for now. So, we'll see what we'll see, OK?'” He doesn't remember saying anything to her over drinks. Maybe “Hello, my name's Howard,” and then she might have given hers. Of course she did if he gave his. They were seated opposite one another at dinner. Sandy said, after she said dinner was ready, who should sit where. There were about ten guests. “Nobody object. I know what I'm doing. I've been running over this network of seating places all week. The single and multiple conversations will just sizzle.” The living room window was behind her chair. The view was of another apartment building's wall. He probably made a reference or two to it. And to the snow, which had been predicted but not in such abundance and had just begun to fall and became one of the city's biggest storms for that or any other year. Certainly for that year, since that was another thing they later referred to about that night and their children, usually over dinner, liked them to remember for them: the record snow the night they met and how each got home. He thinks he walked and she bused. One of the children would know. He thinks he even offered her cab fare to get home. He lived about ten blocks uptown and she about sixty blocks down. “Just as a loan then if that's the only way you'll accept it,” he thinks he said, but she refused: “I'll make do with a subway” or “bus.” Did he walk her to a station or stop? Doesn't remember. They talked at the table to each other and others. Of course. But much more than “Please pass the peas and tuna and cheese casserole.” Though the main dish was turkey with all the traditional trimmings. Sandy asked him to carve it. She'd seen him do it at his parents' home once or twice. What's he talking about? She was his cousin only by marriage and he doesn't believe she met his parents till the wedding. If she saw him carve a turkey or goose anyplace outside of her home it was later: when Denise and he had her over for a holiday feast, which he thinks they did invite her for once or twice. She must have said something like “Anyone here know how to carve a turkey?” and he volunteered, since he'd carved a turkey and capon at his parents' home several times. Was it a holiday eve or night at Sandy's? Around November or December, so could have been one of many. And someone else walked Denise to the station or stop. Or a group of guests walked together or she went alone. He might have offered, she might have said not to bother, but he stayed with Sandy—was the last to leave, in fact—to talk about Denise. Did it matter much that Sandy and he had once made love? Probably not. That was two years before, and the morning after they agreed it had been a big drunken mistake and to just forget it ever happened, if much, they said, really had—they didn't want to go any deeper into what actually did happen since that was part of their starting to forget it—if they wanted to continue their friendship. Anyway—

Anyway, wine. He brought some. That's not important. He's brought wine to just about every dinner party at someone's home for the last thirty-five years. For a while he was bringing two and a few times three bottles of very good wine to a dinner party. That was when he was a more serious wine drinker and just a bigger drinker and also a lot more flush than he is now. Denise refilling his glass. That's why he brought up the wine. First she asked. He said thanks and she poured. But what he remembers most about it was that this woman he hardly knew and was already very attracted to would want to pour him another glass. First hers, then his? Doesn't remember and what's the difference? Perhaps there's some significance, and she might have felt “How can I get away with refilling my glass without refilling his?” but “That was nice,” he remembers thinking. “I like it. She's bold, free-going, present-time, doesn't see wine as just a formality at dinner and linger over a single glass, and also doesn't mind a man who drinks, after he's probably had two or three predinner drinks, a number of glasses of wine and might even be encouraging me to,” though he doesn't see how he could have assumed all that. She refill the glass of the person on her right? Denise and he sat at the end of the long table and each had a person seated next to him and her. Doesn't remember, thinks not. Memory he has of it—really just a vague picture—is of that person talking mostly to the person on the other side of him and the one directly across the table next to Howard. Twenty-nine years ago to be exact. He just tallied it. He remembers dates that long ago by the age of his first child. So all he has to do is remember how old Olivia is and he always seems to. She's twenty-five. They were married almost to the day a year before she was born and they got married three Januaries after the November or December night they met. That would make it twenty-eight years ago to be exact. They had three children, two girls and then a boy. They're all grown up, out of college or never entered it, professionals or on his or her way to becoming one, but on their own. They had the children quickly, three in four years. That was very tough on Denise in a number of ways. Olivia alone seemed to cry from birth onward for three straight years. Now she's remarried. Denise is. Actually, Olivia is too. Her first marriage lasted a year. Had a fourth child, Denise did, by her second husband, who already had three by his first two wives. Olivia doesn't ever want to have a child. “In this world?” she's said. Her husband's just about said the same thing. Her second husband. “By war, riots, famine or nuclear accidents, the kid would never live till middle age.” Her first husband wanted desperately to have a child. That was the main reason she divorced him. But he helped her with the children—Howard did—helped Denise—as much as possible in every way he could. That's what he remembers and also remembers her saying at the time. Later she said he had hardly ever helped her with the children. But there was practically no letup in childwork for both of them for seven or eight years. That wasn't why Denise divorced him: that he had hardly ever helped her with the children. “Incompatibility,” she said, “principally,” and that it just wasn't a marriage anymore. To her it wasn't. To him it still was. Very much still was. Not just that they continued to make love.
He
continued, she said, but who was she kidding? Even if she wanted to be rid of him at the time, when it came to their lovemaking she continued to be into it as much as he. Let's face it: sometimes she forgot what she wanted too. Anyway—

Anyway … anyway. “That's OK,” one of his daughters—Eva—used to say when she was three and did something she thought one of her parents would scold her for. “It's not so bad.” Always worked. But where was he? In his room. Where he is. Wasn't his question-an answer too—but that's OK. Lying in bed. Light on above. Ceiling light. All his clothes on. Shoes on. Only light on and only light in the room and his only room. What he's come to. That's OK. Things could improve. Doesn't really care if they don't. So? Thinking of Denise.
There
. Where he was. Called her a year ago. Good. Get right into it. No more whatever they are. Diversions, discursions, ramblings, roundabouts. On Olivia's birthday called, which is how he remembers it so well: when it was. First Olivia—“Happy birthday, darling”—then, long as he had the receiver in his hand and was thinking family, Denise. That day's—Olivia's birthday—coming up in less than a week, so it's been almost a year exact. Last time he spoke to her but not the last time he heard her voice. Why be cryptic when he knows better? Denise's. His wife for nineteen-and-a-half years. She said “Nice to hear from you. How are you? How's work?” Things like that. Finally: “Awful,” he said. Good. No more diversions or detours. “I wish you hadn't told me that,” she said. “I really don't, if you'll excuse me, want to hear how bad off you are in a mental, emotional, professional or even in a physical kind of way.” “Mean, mean. You once wanted to or at least didn't object.” “One more remark like that and I swear I'm hanging up,” she said. “Please don't,” he said, “even if I know you've every reason to or just about. I'll come right out with it: I called to hear your voice. If Phil had answered—” “Bill,” she said. “Or your child Annette—” “Anita.” “I would have hung up. No, if Anita had answered I would have said ‘Oh, must have got the wrong number.' No, I would have said ‘Hello, young lady. Could you put your mommy on please?' Then when you got on and said hello and then maybe Hello, hello, who is this? Is anyone there?' I would have hung up. If Bill had got on I would have said nothing. Or just ‘Excuse me, must have got the wrong number,' and hung up. Then I would have called the next day or two later.” “Why are you telling me all this?” she said. “No, forget I asked.” “I would have called the next day or two later just to hear your voice. That is, if I hadn't heard it the first time I called, since not only might Anita not have been able to get you but you might not have been home. But if you had got on the first time without Bill or Anita first getting on, I would have just said nothing. I would have just listened to you saying hello or whatever you would have said, but that's not what I did or what happened. I mean, you did get on, but I'm talking to you. You're listening to me. I mean, you are still there and perhaps still listening to me?” “Yes,” she said. Anyway—

Anyway, what? Well, that that phone call wasn't a year ago. It was last week. No, last week he called and only heard her voice. She got on, he heard it and hung up. Not as quick as that but he'll get into it. Last year he spoke to her on the phone. So last week when he called she must have known, if she remembered what he'd said in his phone call a year ago, who it was who hung up a minute or so after she said “Hello, who is it, anyone there?” a couple of times. She knew. Had to. He called. Anita got on. He said “Hello, little girl, your mother home?” She said “Just a minute please,” and yelled “Mommy.” Denise got on, said hello. He said nothing. She said “Hello, who is it, anyone there?” He heard in the background “Who is it, honey?” That was Bill. Or maybe another man. Maybe Bill isn't around anymore. Maybe he's dead, run off or they've separated, divorced. Maybe this man was a new lover. Called her honey. Had to be close to her. Or maybe Bill was on a business trip and the lover was with her only for the night or for the entire time Bill was away. No, couldn't be. She wasn't like that and would never be. Have a lover over while her husband was away and her daughter was home? No. Maybe he was her new husband. But she said to this man—probably Bill—“I don't know, nobody's answering. Maybe it's a crank. Hasn't hung up though. Was it a man or a woman, Anita?” and Anita said “A man.” “What did he say to you—exactly, do you remember?” and Anita said “To get you.” “Hello, who is it? Is anyone still there?” she said into the phone. Then “That you, Howard? I've a sneaking suspicion it is.” He waited a few seconds, she said nothing else, he hung up. That was last week. A year ago on the phone he told her why he had called. Not only about wanting to hear her voice. About his life. How lonely he was with all their children grown up and gone. With just about nobody around. No woman in his life for years now, years, since she left him, he told her. “Oh please,” she said. “You? No women? With your emotional needs and sexual drive? Come off it. Anyway—”

Anyway, twenty-eight years ago was it? He took her in his arms. She took him in hers. They took, they took. She was on top, he was on top. They held each other all night. That's the way he remembers it. Most of the night, then. Part of—what's the difference? They held, held. Exactly three weeks after they first met. Saturday, Saturday. They said “I love you, I love you,” many times. She can't deny that, any of that, now, but so what and why would she? All in the past for her. He kissed her whole body. Tell it. He said “I don't want any part of your body to feel left out.” She said “I like that line, I like it a lot.” She kissed most of his body soon after. Slowly: here, there. Not just pecks either. Some of them big kisses, long. He turned over: here, there. She did what he'd done, he did what she'd done. Remembers it, so much of it, as if it were happening. Next morning she said her vagina still hurt. He said he just had a tough time peeing too. “No, my vagina,” she said, “not the hole where I pee. It's sore. Hurts something terrible. I think I need an aspirin. Two.” That first night on her big bed in the dark room her hair hung long and loose when she was on top of him. Hung all around his face, covered his head and neck completely. Looking through its thin vertical slats, just a little light filtering in from he can't remember where—street? bathroom right outside her bedroom?—it seemed as if he was looking out of what? Tent, he thinks he thought then. Tent with thin vertical slats? Hair like thin vertical slats? Filtering in? Trickling in? He looked out of hair, that's all, long fine loose hair that covered his head. He kissed her breast when she was on top of him. Kissed and then grasped it with his lips till she said “Please, that's not the spot now; stop.” She was on top the first time, he the second time, they were side by side, she with her back to him, the third. “Only way I can possibly do it,” she said. “No energy to get on top again, and you get on top again and I'll burst.” He kept slipping out that third time and kept putting it back in. He just wanted to do it three times with her that first night. Adolescent, he knows, he didn't think then, but so what? He wasn't excited anymore. Erection, yes, but didn't get excited till the end, and even then not so much. But it was as if with three she was his, or something. One was normal, two could be accidental but wasn't atypical, but three was difficult, intentional and maybe memorable. Three clinched it. After a brief sleep he thought of trying for four but felt he might fail at it, and that might somehow undo the ones they'd done and the memorableness of their number. Four would be pushing it, would be pushy. He might have been physically able to do it if she'd got down on all fours and he got behind her. That had usually been the most exciting way for him and usually still is, but it would have been too much to ask of her, it seemed. Maybe too early too. Though doing it that way the first night for either that second or third time might have done something toward clinching it too. But she was tired, she'd said, and sore, and keeping herself in that position for the time it would have had to take to do it wouldn't have been easy. “What are you trying to prove?” she might have asked him. “Once can say it all,” she once said to him a year, maybe two later. They did it seventeen straight nights. Just once and sometimes twice each night. The eighteenth night, when they were in bed and he started to kiss and rub her, she said “What are we trying to prove by doing it every night? It's getting silly. Let's prove we can go to sleep once without screwing.” He's never done it five times in one night with anyone. Four, just with Denise once, and once with some woman he forgets now. He was probably never physically able to do it that often or knew a woman who let or wanted him to. Both. All three. Six. That would be something. What would it feel like after? Would he feel anything but pain or irritation during? Would six be physically damaging? He might be able to do it five or six times—might have been, rather—in one night if he'd had two or more women to do it with. Seven would probably have been impossible no matter how many women he'd had to do it with. Eight, impossible, period. So he called it quits that night with three. It's not something he'd do now or even be physically able to do in one night with one woman: three. Certainly not something he has the chance to do now. Maybe in a whorehouse, if he knew where there was one and he had the money for it and the woman let him. But he hasn't been to one since a few months before he met Denise and wouldn't go to one now for a number of reasons. Anyway—