Frog

by Stephen Dixon

  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—

  Anyway. Anyway. He wishes he were young. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Around the age he was when he first met Denise. That she were young. Around the age she was then too. That he could meet her for the first time. That they had no children, had never been married. Married, what’s the difference? But no children. That they were at a dinner party. Any kind of party. That she was sitting in the living room or standing there or in the foyer when he first got to the party. Or that he was sitting or standing in one of those rooms or the kitchen when she walked in soon after she got to the party or the public hallway right outside the crowded foyer when she was coming upstairs. That they’d look at each other for the first time. Speak, all of that, a first time. Ask the other to pass something at the dinner table or across the bar. Salt, pepper. A bottle of wine, plate of canapés. Smile, say thank you, you’re welcome, not know each other’s last names yet. Know nothing about the other’s family and very little what each has done educationally or does professionally or wants to do in either or both. That the scene would suddenly jump to three Saturdays later. Sundays. Fridays. Two weeks later. It didn’t have to take so much time. He was hedging then. Didn’t know, though he knew he was very attracted to her and she seemed to be attracted to him, whether he wanted to see her again. Knew he’d get involved. Didn’t know if he wanted to. Thought he might want to play around with several women at one time. They’re in bed. Hers, his. She had actually called him after he didn’t call for a week and said “I thought you were going to call. Anything wrong? Tell me and I won’t bother you again.” Just remembered that. They’d met for coffee a few days after the party, took a long walk, had a good time together, laughing, joking, telling each other deep and personal things about themselves, and a week after that was when she called. Blanket, sheet over them. Nothing over them, no clothes. She’s on top of him first, he’s on top of her first, later holding each other through some to most of the night. Outside, a thunderstorm. Lightning. Went on for a long time. She asked if he was frightened—“I am.” Storm had wakened them. He said “No, but it’s wonderful having thunder, lightning, rain batting the windows and you with me all at the same time for our first night. Sort of enshrines it, or something.” Just remembered that. The electric storm and almost exactly what he’d said. He’s thought of it before but not for years. She said that was sweet. They probably then kissed, covers must have been back over them, and maybe it was then when they started to make love a third time. He started to. She just turned onto her right side and let him put it in. Now on a single bed. One small room with a kitchenette. Had a large studio then, much better furnished. She had two rooms with a full-sized kitchen and a backyard. She was making lots of money, for more than a year she was one of the leads in a very successful play. It’s been a bad year for him. Several bad years in a number of ways. He doesn’t have a phone. Called her from a booth that last time. From his phone in his previous apartment a year ago. She can’t call him even if she wanted to. Why would she want to, except maybe to say one of their children is sick. She could send him a letter. A telegram, if it was an emergency, though she’d have to get his address from one of the children. It wouldn’t be the same thing, a letter. Remembers hers. The good ones, ardent ones, ones that said—only one did—“So bus the 450 miles to see me, but see me, for I need and want you now.” Not like the letters after they split up. “Please don’t call—don’t call, that’s all—or ring my downstairs buzzer, wait for me at work, send me anymore gifts, telegrams or letters, bother me in any kind of way again.” Anyway—

  Anyway, should go to sleep now. He’s tired enough. Has to be at work early tomorrow. Isn’t: end of job. Odd that he’s making less now, in what the money buys, and gets less respect at work, mainly because of the kind of job he had to take at his age just to survive, than when he first met her. Probably not so odd, but then was he ever on his way. Turns off the light, turns over on his side—right side, but don’t make anything of it—cups his hands under his cheek, wishes he had two pillows. They always slept with two each. Her habit. He got to like it. She had two for herself when he met her and wanted two for herself when he moved in. They went to a store to buy two more, but the same kind she had in case their pillows got mixed up on the bed. But enough of that. Shuts his eyes. Thinks of himself sitting on a rooftop. Climbing a tree. Sailing a boat. He never sailed. Hasn’t climbed a tree since he was a young man. He was sitting cross-legged when he never does. She sailed before she met him—with the man who played her father in the play: just friendship; they’d never made love—and liked to sit cross-legged in her short nightie while reading on their bed, but that doesn’t have to be the explanation why. They’re naked in bed. Image just entered. He didn’t do anything to bring it on. Nothing immediate he means; now. It’s that first time again. He remembers her body so well. For those twenty or so years it only imperceptibly changed. Maybe a little more. She studied dance for years, continued to as an actress, during their marriage always ran, swam, did dance warmups, kept in shape. Waist, breasts, hips, arms, legs—all like a dancer’s. Muscular buttocks, calloused feet, delicate hands. The neck. Strong stomach. Her face. Long blond hair usually brushed straight back with a barrette on top or pinned into a chignon. Dirty blond hair to almost brown by the time they divorced. Always so soft. Covered his face. Sucked her nipples when it did. Right one was the one he preferred, maybe because it was the easiest to reach. That make sense? Could. Ran his hand down her long hard deep back crack. She’s on top of him now. Grabbed her ass and squeezed and rubbed. Pressed it into him. Steered their movements just like she did. They came, one of them first. Rolled over. Soon started doing it again. They said “You know, I love you.” “And you know I love you.” “And I love you.” “And I love you, my darling.” “And you’re my darling too and I love you.” “And I love you, my darling sweetheart, I love you, just you.” “And I love you too, my darling darling sweetheart, I love you, just love you, I do.” “Love love love,” one said. “Love love love love,” the other said. They came, slept, sometime after that started doing it again. He did. She let him. All that’s been said. If that hasn’t been said then should have been assumed. Long kisses, all kinds of kisses. Telephone rings. Must be ringing in the apartment across from his or is in his head. Listens. Ringing stops. “Rachel, thought it was you,” a woman says. He imagines her speaking on the phone to him. “My darling, I haven’t changed and I’m coming right over.” Her clothes, body, feelings toward him? “My sweetheart, I’ve changed somewhat, but who doesn’t in ten-some years at our age, and I’m coming right over. I’m going to jump right into bed with you when I get there. How could we have let it go on like this so long? I let it. But enough talk. I’m on my way.” She comes. Rings the vestibule bell. He opens his door while she’s running upstairs. “As you can see,” she says, “I’m still in pretty good shape.” He pulls her down on him. First closes the door. First tears off her clothes. First hurries with her to the bed. He had w
aited naked for the half-hour it took her to get there. He raises the top part of his body to hers. Their heads meet, chests. They open their mouths. Kiss for a minute like that without stopping. He’s inside her now. Just happened. Corresponding parts found their way. For the time being he doesn’t feel much down there; it’s all in the kiss. Her hair around him. Still soft and fine. Used to frizz up a bit when she took a hot shower or the air was damp. Then he falls back on the bed because he can’t keep himself up like that any longer and she falls on him, clip their teeth and almost chip them, and they start kissing again and holding each other as tight as they can without hurting the other, she with her arms under him till she has to pull them out because, she later tells him, they were beginning to hurt.