Frog (85 page)

Where'd she put her diaphragm? Doesn't remember putting it back in the case or the case into the cosmetics bag. No, she put the case into the bag and the bag into their overnight valise but doesn't remember putting the diaphragm into the case. Still in, she forgot. They should make one with a benign alarm in it to go off after the sixth hour or, if she knew she was going to be around anyone except her husband, to set it to just tickle her. Wanted… started…was playing with herself early this morning in bed when she couldn't sleep. Thought he might be interested. He usually is with a little prompting and if he hasn't done it in a day or since the previous night, and has joked it's his duty to serve her that way whenever she wants. Joke or not, he's usually done so except when exhausted or drunk. And if she tells him all she needs is a few minutes of vigorous fingering and him in her another few—this is mainly for sleep, no orgasm necessary on her part but be her guest on his—even better for him because then he's home away free—after he finishes fingering, quick as he likes which she thinks he likes best even if he's said slow way, long buildup, with her coming, is infinitely preferable. Got up to pee, put it in when she sat back on the bed, thinking better there than in the bathroom since it'd be a hint to him if he was awake and even a turn-on, that slapping sound, the jelly smell, and just watching her insert it. Kissed his shoulder, he didn't respond. Kissed his neck and back—he was on his side turned away from her, didn't respond. Felt his thigh, penis—at first she was sure he was pretending not to notice her. He stayed soft so he probably was asleep, since she never knew him not to respond somewhat when she really rubbed it except when he was exhausted, etcetera, sick or it was too soon after they last did it. Young men. Some could do it three times in a row, when she was young, which maybe had something to do with it—her body then, to look at and what it could do and take—with only a few minutes to a half-hour needed between orgasms, and a couple of them could stay hard and in and start right over again and sometimes three times a night for several days in a row, which really made her ache. While she doesn't remember him more than a couple of times coming twice in a night and with probably a few hours between. Quality over quantity? Not really. Some of those young men were just as able and felt as good, but no doubt most of them have slowed down too. She played with it a bit longer and then didn't want to be a pest. Should have tried doing it longer to herself but her condition's made it nearly impossible for her to finish even with him in her. And this morning, girls still sleeping, he was in such a rush to get things done for the trip that he was up before six. She said in her head when he was dressing “Come back to bed, I want to have sex.” Should have said it aloud, and if he just smiled and went on dressing, said something about what he's said is his duty and that they can make it quick. Strokes his leg, he smiles, takes his hand off the wheel and squeezes her hand and puts his hand back on the wheel. “So we're friends again?” he says. “When weren't we?” “Lots,” and whispers “Come on, we've hated each other sometimes and a few times at the same time.” “I guess that's true but yes, friends—you're a dear, and do we have a choice?” Whispers: “You can always leave me. I'd never leave you but I'd never make a row if you left me.” “So you say about both.” “What?” Olivia says. “Nothing,” she says, “we're talking—But didn't you once say a young woman—younger by twenty years than you—last one you were with for a while before you met me—said that about you: that you would and she would never and a month later she ended up leaving you?” “Who did?” Olivia says. “This is private,” she says. “Just sit back, and you have a book there, read or look out of the window.” “I'm bored.” “So read. That's what we got you the new books for.” Olivia picks up a book. He looks back at her, sees she's reading, Eva's playing with a doll, says to Denise “She had a venereal problem with a D. Not with a, well, I can't find the right initial, but she wasn't a hot babe—not like you. Maybe it was just to me because of the age difference.” “Don't be silly. Dozen years later, women that age must still be attracted to you. You're very X-E and you know it.” “Sure I do, sure I am, sure they are. But I told you she gave me it, this V with a D. Actually with an A, for ailment—initials that crawled.” “You did.” “But by the time I met you I'd been disinfected. Actually, she was the next to last before you. There was the one I met at the U of C reading I gave and which five people came to. My only groupie. She'd read a story of mine once, one of the three she'd read in her adult life—she was an English major so didn't read much fiction—and since I was the only live writer of the three, she was impressed. After her I thought of going on tour—it was so easy. Are you married?' she said, after I signed the photocopy of my story she had. If you're not or you are but legally or mutually separated, I've a car outside if you want to go home with me.' Later I learned she was mostly a lesbian. Pre-AIDS by a few months, so no problem. Now who knows what I'd do.” “So that's why you'll never leave me. I'm the only woman you're sure is virus free.” “You got it. So, it's the Breakwater after all? Settled? Because it has become pretty expensive and so chichi. That whole town has.” “It was always chichi but worse since the VP became a P” “Blueberry bagels, strawberry mustard, Kennebunkport air in a can. Farts, that's what's in them, a secret they're able to keep for they figure nobody's going to open the can. Fug ‘em.” “Don't curse,” Eva says. “Don't say fuck.” “I didn't and don't you. I said fug. It's a dance. To do the fug. Let's cut a rug with the fug.” “Don't push it,” Denise says. “It'll make it more memorable to her.” “Hey kids,” he yells, “a barge. In the water. So, getting closer to Maine. This river to that reach to that ocean. No cows or those immaculate clouds yet but I see them way off in the distance.” “What else you see?” Olivia says. “Hey, Country View Drive-in. Milton, the owner, feeding his pet rabbits and geese in those cages next to the outside tables and then racing back to the kitchen to cook up a mess of fishburgers. We're on our way, Milton; see you for snacks in two or three days.” “What else you see?” Eva says. “Well, through the rearview mirror there's grandpa leaving his building to walk to Zabar's to send us some of your favorite plain bagels and cream cheese—he doesn't see how we can live without them up there. And in front, but only as far as southern Maine this time—oh no, President B., his helicopters, landing in Bennyshlumpsnort just to crowd up the joint with reporters and secret servicemen and ruin our day—stay away. I really do hope he isn't in for the weekend,” to Denise. “It's always twice as crowded, even at the beach I take the kids to where the voters jam the shore hoping to see him at the wheel of his speedboat. I don't know why they expect to sight him. Most of those Maine motorboat guys his age look alike—tall, gangly, angly, deepcheeked, peaked cap down to their long thin noses, but I guess no one else has gunboats preceding and following him and a flying gunboat overhead. ‘Oh look, there he is.' ‘No, I think that's him.' ‘But they look exactly alike and same with their boats.' ‘The first one's an impostor to take the heat off the real B.' Or how about what I heard on the beach last year: ‘I just got word on my CB he's left the compound by boat ten minutes ago and is heading this way.'” “If he is in town I hope he jogs by the inn as I heard he does. It'll be exciting, especially for the girls to see him—or eats breakfast there tomorrow, which he's also done.” “Tomorrow's Saturday, fish and zip-along-the-water day, so no jogging or breakfast away. Save that for after church on Sunday when the news cameras have nothing to do and he can wave at them. And I don't want to be frisked by the S.S. a dozen times before I even take my first coffee sip. But can you believe it, everyone? Breakfast at the Green Heron tomorrow, tonight some fresh-picked crabmeat hor-durvy and local grilled fish, the best night of the year for me. Maine to look forward to for two months. And no beds to make, clean sheets, a clean bathroom, nothing to clean up, taking the kids to the beach before dinner if it doesn't rain—please, dear God, no rain. Then back to the inn for a scotch with their rocks and reading the paper or a book while you bathe then. And after dinner back to the inn again, no noises outside but the distant shore banging and bugs busting their brains out against the screen. Beach and tree smells and those wild bush roses—and all this after a long car trip with only me at the wheel, no crit intended, so even better. And big comfortable bed with several fluffed-up pillows and at the restaurant a bottle of good wine between us or one-fifth you, four-fifths me, so from Major Deegan to major love, what do you say?” “You want it confirmed beforehand?” “Wouldn't mind.” “If no major disturbances, I'll be ready. Was, this morning, if you didn't know.” “I didn't. Why didn't you moan something, grab or nudge me?” “Oh well, but you brought scotch?” “Sure, in an old applesauce jar, about four shots' worth, but sealed with duct tape and then in a plastic bag and tied, so don't worry, it's with my things and won't spill.” “Who was worrying? I just don't want you to get drunk or have too much of a headache tomorrow to drive well.” “I also brought Alka-Seltzer and stuck a few aspirins into my wallet, wrapped in foil, just in case.” “Our exit's coming up soon. Four or five, but you'll know it by the one right after the Yonkers racetrack. It's beside a big disorderly looking shopping center, and looks more like an exit to it than to 287. If I nod off for a nap now you'll get us off this and onto the expressway OK?” “I remember how. Cross County, a.k.a. 287, exit to it on the right—keep a sharp eye out for it looks more like a turnoff to the center than an entry road to the expressway. Then Cross County to Hutchinson north or east to the Merritt Parkway and all the way to the end of the Merritt where we can either make a right to a road leading to 95 or continue straight ahead to Hartford on the Wilbur Cross. But you'll be awake by then and if you're not I'll get you up to help make the decision between the two.” “Wilbur Cross, why not? We've never taken it north but took it coming back last year and you said it seemed faster than our usual route: 91, 95 and so on.” “But the unknown. Will we know how to get to 84 or 86 or whatever it is out of Hartford? They were changing the numerals last year and it was all screwed up and we made it right to Wilbur Cross just by chance.” “It'll be posted; they'll have worked it out. After a year I bet there are signs still saying ‘86, once 84,' or ‘84, once 86,' or was it 84 or 86 to 184 or 186? No matter what, there won't be a problem. New England isn't New York City.” “Are we in Maine yet?” Eva says. “No, dummy,” Olivia says. “Don't talk like that,” he says. “You'd want her to give that same crap to you?—No, my doll. First New York, which we're still in, then Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire for not very long, California, South Oregon, North Oregon, Washington state and finally over the Piscataqua if that's the name of it Bridge—I think Mommy calls it Kittery Bridge because it ends up in Kittery and has a nicer ring to it and she never wants to chance spelling Piscatooey. Then about twenty miles on the Maine Turnpike to Wells and 9 or 6 or 1 or a couple of those roads till we're in Phlegmylunkpork, Lemonyjunk-wart, Georgiepishpot, Bushyposhfort, over the quaint Water Street bridge with hundreds of under- or overdressed tourists gawking around where to spend their next thousand bucks, right at Ocean Avenue at the souvenir-shirt shop and about a mile on it past Whale Watch till hello Green Heron Inn and maybe the green heron itself sleeping by the pond there. Supposed to be good luck if you see it but don't wake it.” “Then my luck the last few years should have been better,” Denise says. “From today on, the
Times'
travel section said. But lets hope no slip-ups, car-disrupts, torrential rains, wrong roads, souths instead of norths, wests instead of easts, or we'll be behind in time and we all want to get there on the nose to carry out our plans, correct? and which I expect will be,” looking at his watch, “five-o-dot.” “Coming to our exit,” she says. “Slow down, stay right. You see it?” “I see it, I know it, now I got it—why you checking up on me so much? I could do it blindfolded.” “I know how upset you get—either of these two dividing roads in front will do, since they come together soon—when you miss an exit on a long trip and have to go back for even a few miles. Every time we miss a familiar landmark—the Charter Oak Bridge, the truck or moving-van billboard with the real truck on top of it in Wooster or Lawrence I believe—you say we could have crossed or passed it ten miles ago, if we had to backtrack five miles, or ten minutes ago and we won't make it on five-o-dot and that sort of thing. Do you remember the worst one?” “Sure. You were at the wheel. I was navigating and the overhead Maine and New Hampshire and Cape Cod arrow-right sign wasn't up yet, nor the left one to Springfield. Maybe just little ones on the side we didn't see or just ‘Mass Pike, East, West.'” “I was pregnant with Olivia then—seven months… July, August, September—well, six plus—but wanted to divorce you on the spot.” “Good thing we weren't traveling with two lawyers, a judge and court.” “I thought you'd never come out of it. The Big Pout I called it for a few years. For that wrong turn cost us about fifteen miles in the opposite direction before we could turn around, so thirty miles or thirty minutes or so and at the time you weren't this generous to admit who was controlling the map.” “Forty minutes, ten of which I later made up by doing seventy-five to eighty over a long stretch without getting caught.” “What happened?” Olivia says. “Daddy was being so nice to Mommy she got all confused and made a wrong turn.” “No, what happened?” “You don't believe me?—She doesn't believe me.” “What happened, Mommy?” “You read too many books, kid,” he says. “You should be asking what's a pout or ‘controlling the map' means.” “I know what those are.” ‘That's what I'm saying. You know all the words. But you should be asking what they mean instead of trying to find out the grimy details of every grim scene. Well, Ms. Drew, this case you ain't gonna solve ‘cause you ain't gonna get all the facts.” “What's a pout?” Eva says. “A pout's—oh, I'm lousy at definitions. Your mom's much better at it.” “What's a debonition?” “An endearing—agh, there I am using that word again as if I didn't know it was a phony one and didn't know any other. A debonition's a real sweet pronunication of definition.” “What are they, Mommy—endearing, pruncation and the ones I said?” “A pout is a grimace, a scowl,” Denise says, “like this,” and pouts. “And pronunciation, which is how you say it, is the way words are pronounced, spoken. And definition is the meaning of a word. For instance, grimace and scowl are other words for pout.” “What's meaning?” and Denise says “What I said—what a word means.” “It can also be an interpretation of something,” Olivia says. “Did you hear that?” he says to Denise. “Everybody—hey, fancy lady in the speeding Mercedes out there, did you hear that? My kid! Both of them, one for serious asking, other for her answers. What's that?” Cups his left ear. “‘Way beyond us' you say what she said?—And look, just noticed, hardly any traffic around—now we're going, now we're cooking with gas. And hey, everybody, Hay's Farmstand in Blue Hill—just remembered. I don't see it but I do smell it. Organic carrots and sugar snaps, seventeen varieties of red lettuce, blueberries with worms in them because they're not sprayed—can't wait.” “They haven't worms,” Denise says, “or few that do won't have live ones if you cook them, and don't scare the kids or there'll be more things they don't eat. And I'm going to conk out for about half an hour now, you have the route straight? Were coming up on Hutchinson—” “I saw the sign.” “Left—it'll be a sharp one—good. Next, Merritt, which it goes right into, and why not Wilbur Cross, since both parkways are overgrown so with less sun on them.” “Okey-doke. A shady journey. Say, good title for something, though nothing I'd do.” “What about the one I gave you,” Olivia says.