Frog

by Stephen Dixon

  He lies on his side, shuts his eyes, pictures come. Mother. Looking radiant and beautiful, as so many people used to say in just about the same words, standing in a bright light. Theater spots, sunlight—she did both. This is something he’s making up. Or a memory stored away for thirty to forty years and just now emerged from its little hole and came to the top. But so what. Mother, so glad to see her. Great, that’s what it is, since she’s rarely appeared so clearly in his dreams or thoughts: light on her, serene smile, about to speak. What, Mother? Holding a closed umbrella, slowly closes her mouth. No, please, speak. It’s really more a movie scene, though she never did anything but stage. Right: couple of silents, she said, but ones she was only a chorus girl in and he’s never seen. Even her clothes now are from another century, one she wasn’t in. Goodbye, Mother, I know you’re aching to go. She seems to be fading. Goodbye. Then Father. Drill in his hand, patient in his chair, white dental smock, dental lamp overhead. “Open wider,” he says. Or mouths that to his patient. Patient opens wider. Patient’s he. He’s in his father’s operatory, hands clutching the armrests. His father hated to treat him. Also hated sending him to another dentist. Never resolved that. So he got bad teeth from it. When by the time he got to his office the tooth was often gone or the cavity very deep. Root canal needed. But he hated doing root canal on him, so drilled deeper. Oh the pain. “Novocaine isn’t working,” Howard would say. “I gave you a shot big enough to knock out a horse. Sit still, keep your mouth open.” Oh the pain. Later when he was old enough he went to another dentist but didn’t tell his father. Saved the money to pay for it by working as a delivery boy. His father found out. Bill came to the house by mistake. Called him into a room alone. “What’s this?” “Why’d you intercept it? It was addressed to me.” “Don’t worry, I didn’t open it. What’s it for though? Don’t give me a cock-and-bull story either.” “I went for a root canal.” “I’m not good enough to do it for you? That what your mother says too? She lead you up to it?” “She doesn’t know. Besides, she says all the time you’re a fine dentist, a terrific dental surgeon, but that what you’re best at is plates and false teeth. But my tooth got so bad I didn’t want to bother you. I know you hate giving me pain in your chair.” “You still should’ve come to me. If I couldn’t do it myself, or didn’t have the heart to, I would’ve sent you to a dentist friend who wouldn’t have charged you. Or if he did, only for the x-rays and lab work, which I would’ve taken care of for you. What’s this guy charging you? I bet too much.” “Two hundred.” “For one tooth? Is that with a complete set of x-rays and some fillings and a cleaning?” “No.” “He’s robbing you blind.” “But he’s a good dentist, and there was almost no pain. Who would you have sent me to, Hirsch?” “Sure, Dr. Hirsch, why not?” “Because I’ve heard you yourself say he’s a cheapskate with x-rays and giving shots and even his lights. He just digs till you scream and then says ‘spit.’” “He’s an expert dentist, been at it for more than forty years.” “Maybe that’s his trouble then. His hands shake. He’s half-blind and never seems to clean his glasses. I bet he doesn’t even wash his hands, as you do, before he works on a patient. I wouldn’t have gone to him even if you paid me to.” “Then Dr. Wachtel.” “Same. I don’t want your cronies. Excuse me, but I want real careful professionals who don’t skimp on anything.” “you want dentists just out of college. You want fancy equipment and degrees all over the office. You want to pay through the nose. Well good, go ahead, since whatever I tell you to do, you always do the opposite anyway.” “So what are we arguing about then? In the end, it’s my money.” “But I hate seeing you waste it. You should have at least come to me for advice. It’s true I don’t like working on my kids. But I could’ve found you excellent treatment—not Hirsch or Wachtel if you didn’t want—and for a lot less money. I would’ve paid for it all, in fact. Now you won’t get a dime from me for it.” “It’s okay. I didn’t want any. I know how hard you work for your money.” “Good. Then we’re settled.”

  He opens his eyes. That actually happened much like that. He was fourteen, he was sixteen. What’s bothering him though? Maybe he should force himself to eat, get back into life. He goes into the kitchen, opens the refrigerator, takes out cheese. Cuts a slice and puts it into his mouth. Can’t bite down on it. Do. Shuts his eyes and tries. Spits it into his hand and dumps it. Milk. He pours a glass but doesn’t drink it. It’s not sour; just suddenly he doesn’t like the milk smell. Too what? Milky, creamy, something. A carrot. Always a carrot. No, enough with carrots. Chump chump chump, that’s all he ever does with them, four to five times a day, and mostly out of nervousness. Bad letter or phone call, he’d quickly go to the refrigerator, get out a carrot, scrape it and chump on it. It used to be: he’d want to call a woman or for a job but too many jitters to: chump on a carrot. Celery. Doesn’t want to cut off the leaves, clean the stalk, anything like that. Then don’t cut or clean: eat it all. Not hungry. You don’t have to be hungry to eat celery. Water. Drink water. Maybe he’s too dry inside. What’s the word that’s used? Evaporated, desiccated, something else but which could lead to the body’s electricity going awry. Just dry, very dry inside. Gets a glass of water but doesn’t want to drink. Feels he’ll gag. Sips a little and spits most of it out. Get on the toilet then. Sit on it till something comes out of one of those holes. He used to have to do that as a kid? Thinks sometimes his mother or one of the women who took care of him made him do it, but that was probably for his own good.

  He goes into the bathroom, sits, nothing. Read then, on or off the toilet. Goes into the living room, sits, opens a book. Doesn’t want to read. Read. Reads the opening line a dozen times, two dozen. He could read it a hundred times and it still might not make any sense. Maybe it’s the book. Opens another. Same thing. A dozen times, quits. The newspaper. They’re easy. But he’s not interested in anything in the news. Yesterday’s story a little changed today. Today’s story not much different from one a month ago, a year. Reviews of books, movies and plays he won’t want to read or see. Masturbate then. Maybe that’ll help. He lies on the bed, lowers his pants, tries getting an erection by pulling and caressing himself, can’t. Vaseline. Gets some from the bathroom, rubs it on his penis, tries again, using all the tricks he knows; nothing. Stomach pain and headache are gone though. Not thinking of them probably got rid of them. Maybe that says something. What? Just that if he does or thinks of other things—well, what he just said.

  He goes into the living room, sits in the armchair and stares at the wall. Nothing comes. Shuts the light. Now it’s dark. Closes his eyes. Denise. Pushing a stroller down a street. Which baby was inside? He’s had this memory of her doing this several times before. But thinking about the image like that has made him lose it. Bring it back. Opens and closes his eyes. It’s back. He isn’t often successful doing that. Denise. In a blue parka with the hood up, outfit she had on when his mind took this image. Pushing the stroller down the street they lived on when their girls were infants. One of those harmless light memories that stayed. He doesn’t know why. Glad it did. Maybe that’s what he should think about. Image is gone again. Bring it back. Does. That’s never happened that he can remember. But stick with it now, think of nothing else. Loves the image, picture, of her pushing the stroller with one of their babies inside. It was a much better time for him, no doubt about that. One of the best times. Maybe the best. Still got angry then, often got sour. Often was dissatisfied with lots of things, etcetera, but for the most part, or a great deal of the time, or just some of the time—enough of the time to make him think things were going reasonably well for him—he was OK. He was relatively content. Image is long gone and he doubts he’ll be able to bring it back. That’s never happened. Try. Tries. Opens and closes his eyes. Nothing but quick pictures of sparkling lights, an opened window moving diagonally down to the left, a picture frame with nothing inside. And very often he was very content. They talked a lot, made love several times a week. Laughed, kidded, traded observations about people, news item
s, books. They kissed on the lips just about every day. How about an image of that? Isn’t one, or not one he unwittingly took. Not even at the door? Opens and closes his eyes. Can’t even picture it, doesn’t know why. Then making love. There too. She on top, he on top—nothing resembling them comes through. First two planks, then a double-decker bed, then two dark masses of gas, twitching. She usually let her long hair down before they began, sometimes where it covered their heads. If they hadn’t kissed that day and it was late and they were in bed, let’s say, he’d say something about it and they’d kiss, usually twice, a long and short. So: every day unless one of them fell asleep before he could say something about it. If it were she, he’d kiss her shoulder and head, since one on the lips, no matter how lightly, would wake her. That was then. Time of the stroller. For about three years. If it was his youngest girl in that stroller image, then that was around the time he was taking the oldest girl to the playground once or twice a week. Talked to her as they walked. Carried her if she asked. Kissed her as he carried her. Blew or sputtered into her cheek, which she found fun. Pushed her on the swings, sometimes for a half-hour straight. See if he can picture it. Sort of: man, holding out his hands, standing behind a deadpan girl swinging back and forth. Man’s not he, girl’s not she. Told her stories before she went to sleep. Which were her favorites? Then what were some of the things she loved to say? Then some of the more memorable one-time things she said? One then. Closes his eyes. Gives up. Turns on the light, takes a piece of paper from the secret pocket in his wallet and reads. “‘When I grow up I want to meet a man, get married, have babies and live happily ever after.’ ‘Like your mommy and daddy?’ I asked. Yes, but with a different man.’ ‘When baby sister is in the country I’m going to teach her how to smell flowers and pet cats.’ ‘Will the dandelions like the water we put them in?” Regarding any body of water she sees: ‘Would a whale be happy in there?’ “The moon is a ball which you hit till it falls. That rhymes. So does shines.’” Where’s she now? Go to the phone and call. Puts the paper back into the wallet, wallet into his pocket. If you get a forwarding number, call that. Never, she’ll hang up. Just to hear her voice. Do it with the youngest too. Or in a fake voice and accent if you speak. “Hello, hello,” say; “is Alexander P. Snappin in?” That relates to a private joke between them he’s forgotten. Suppose she says “Is that you, Daddy?” If she does, she’ll then say “If it is, I already told you.” Same with the youngest. “No more communications,” she wrote. “No anonymous letters, impetuous phone calls, telegrams telling of your love, power of the blood, remorse.” “Please dear,” he wrote back, or something like it. He gets the letter out of the table drawer and reads. “I’m your father; I’m sorry for everything I’ve done to hurt or anger you, even the things I’m not aware I should be sorry for, even this letter; I love you both more than I could ever say in any way, so please, please; gesundheit.”

  He crumples up the letter, shuts the light, puts his hands over his eyes, would like a complete—whatever it is—total cry. Pulls at the hair on his arms. Stamps the floor with his feet till it sounds as if he’s running fast. Raps his temples with his knuckles. Digs into his temples with them. Pounds his thighs with his fists. Presses a fist into his palm and squeezes, squeezes hard as he can till he’s out of breath. Scratches his face with his hands and wants to cut through the skin, can’t get himself to do it. Grabs his penis and shakes and pulls it hard, imagines it coming off in his hand and shudders, stops. Goes to the kitchen, gets cheese from the refrigerator and stuffs it into his mouth, swallows it. Opens a bottle of beer and drinks it down in several gulps. Opens another beer and pours himself a tall brandy and drinks the two alternately till he’s finished them. Pulls the cork out of the half-filled bottle of wine, empties the bottle into a water glass and drinks it down. Stuffs bread and more cheese into his mouth, swallows them. Opens a new bottle of wine and fills up the water glass with it. Gets a plate out of the refrigerator, cuts up meat left from a few nights ago, smells it, it smells OK and stuffs it into his mouth and washes it down with the wine. Bites off most of the baked potato from that same dinner a few nights ago, shoves in his mouth a handful of lima beans and dressed leftover salad from that plate, swallows everything. Goes to the bathroom and pees, shits. Wipes himself. Is pulling up his pants when he has to shit again. He just sits there till he shits a third time, gets a bunch of tissues out of a tissue box and soaks them in warm water and pats himself.

  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.

  8

  _______

  Frog Going Downstairs

  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.