Frog

by Stephen Dixon

  “Definitely we should have acted sooner,” a man says.

  “And if we did, what then?” a second man says. “It wouldn’t’ve changed things. It all ends up at Pickle Creek.”

  “One’s either too early or too late but never on time,” a third man says. “Nothing we can do about it though, and nothing we learn from it will help us the next time around.”

  He continues downstairs and sees two policemen and a priest. “Hello.”

  “How do you do, sir,” the priest says and the policemen nod at Howard and resume talking almost at once.

  “If, if, if,” one says. “I’m sick of it.” “Then let’s drop the whole freaking thing,” the other says.

  “You boys really mean that?” the priest says. “Because if you do, then at least we came to something constructive today.”

  “Excuse me, but is anything wrong in the building?” Howard says.

  “What could be wrong?” one of the policemen says.

  “I don’t know. Two policemen and a priest standing, midafternoon, in the hallway of a small apartment building? The priest dressed all in black—”

  “This is the way I always dress outside.”

  “But also the two policemen here. When you’re all together like that-”

  “We’re friends of Father Keiser,” the other policeman says. “And we’ve official business to discuss with him.”

  “So it’s not Mr. Spady in that apartment? He’s been rushed to the hospital twice in the last couple of months—maybe more, I’m not quite sure.”

  “It isn’t Mr. Spady,” the priest says. “I was on my way to the mall, the policemen saw me from their car and wanted to talk. It was too hot to stand on the street or sit in the car and talk—”

  “We would’ve given you a lift, Father. We still could.”

  “No, I need the exercise badly—So, when we saw someone entering your building, we said ‘Why don’t we do that too?’ and we came in here. That’s the only reason—to get out of the sun. Now if it’s all right with you, sir, thanks for your interest, but these men are very busy and we have to finish our little talk.”

  “Yes of course, I’m sorry,” and he leaves the building.

  He’s walking downstairs, thinking of the work he wants to do and how he might start it, when the sight of three men stops him. A priest in a black suit and two policemen in white shirts with no jackets. Something about the bright light on them from the hallway window, making the shirts seem illuminated and the suit look as if it has a white outline around it. They’re talking low, stop, look at him a few seconds and continue talking low. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but by their looks he can see it’s something very serious to them. Then the priest slaps his hands, keeps them clenched and says “Don’t worry, leave it to me. It’ll turn out aces, I guarantee it.”

  “There’s never a guarantee with something like that,” one of the policemen says.

  “Excuse me,” Howard says. “Is anything going on in the building that I can be of some assistance to or that as a tenant here I should perhaps know about?”

  “What could be going on?” the policeman says.

  “Just that you three men here. It’s not the kid—maybe I shouldn’t say this.”

  “No no, go on, what?”

  “The young man above us—our apartment. I mean, I don’t want to start anything, but it’s only that he has been in trouble with the police before that made me bring it up. They’ve been here a couple of times the last year, so I thought—Just that, well, when you live in a building with your family—even alone, if that’s the case—and there’s one guy who occasionally acts like a punk and once or twice has been one too—”

  “Wait, you mean the Huffman kid?” Howard nods. “Right, for a moment I didn’t realize what building we were in—Drugs, selling them,” he says to the priest, “and supposedly ripping off a bike in this or the next building a few months ago.”

  “The next one, which is the sister one to ours,” Howard says.

  “Anyway, all straightened out now, I heard—You know the Huffman kid, don’t you?” he says to the other policeman.

  “No, who?”

  “Long hair, kind of stringy, dirty. Tall, hefty, really fat-faced kid we came here or the next building to see about that bike, and maybe last year also, winter.”

  “You probably came here for him but to the next building for the bike owner,” Howard says.

  “I wasn’t on with you either time,” the other policeman says.

  “I don’t know the young man either,” the priest says. “But he has nothing to do with our being here,” to Howard, “nor does anyone in the building, far as I can tell. And we do have to finish our talk…”

  “Sure, certainly. And I’m sure I shouldn’t have said anything about the Huffman kid.”

  “Why not? Neighbors should look after neighbors, so long as they’re not being nosy; and if there’s wrongdoing, to do what they can to discourage it. That’s all you were doing.”

  “I suppose. Thank you,” and he goes past them.

  He’s walking downstairs when he hears men on the first floor and then sees two policemen and a priest. “Excuse me, is anything wrong?”

  “No, we’re just talking,” the priest says.

  “It’s only that you all look so grave. For a moment I thought it could even be my daughter at nursery. She goes to the one over there at First Lutheran Church.”

  “I’m a Roman Catholic priest.”

  “Of course, I’m sorry. Also, I didn’t really think it seriously, that something was wrong about my daughter. It was just something that came all of a sudden when I saw you.”

  “It isn’t your daughter, don’t worry,” one policeman says.

  “I know; but someone here?”

  “Nobody regarding anything grave,” the priest says. “I was returning something to a member of my church,” and he nudges a shopping bag on the floor with his foot, “and the officers were talking to me outside when it began to rain.”

  “Oh, it’s raining? I better go up and get an umbrella. Excuse me,” and he goes upstairs.

  He’s walking downstairs when he sees two policemen and a priest. Priest is in a black suit, clerical collar, has white hair. Police are jacketless and in long-sleeved white shirts, black ties held down by clips, no hats. One’s leaning against the radiator, other’s against the wall, both with their arms crossed, listening to the priest. The priest stops talking when Howard approaches them. “Good afternoon,” he says.

  “Afternoon,” the priest says. The policemen nod, arms stay crossed, look at him, he thinks, as if he may be the one they’ve come to see.

  “Something wrong in the building?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, everything’s right, thank you.”

  “But having the police and you—”

  “We’re just—”

  Walking downstairs. Hears voices from the second floor. Men’s. Three to four, it sounds like. Stops halfway down to listen. Garbled, can’t make out a word. Maybe it’s a foreign language. But he knows a few foreign languages, or two fluently and parts of others. Nothing. He goes all the way down. Two policemen and a priest. Priest is gesticulating with his hands and head. Police are shaking their heads animatedly. “But we have to,” the priest says. “Not on your life,” one policeman says. “I also have serious reservations,” the other policeman says. “No, we have to, that’s all there is to it,” the priest says.

  “Anything wrong?” Howard says.

  “Wrong, how?” one policeman says.

  “In this building. Maybe on this floor. Is anything the matter?”

  “Yes, now that you mentioned it,” the priest says.

  “Father. It’s supposed to be strictly official,” the policeman says.

  “Why? Maybe this man knows something—You live here, don’t you?”

  “On the second floor. Howard Tetch. With my family. What is it?”

  Suddenly he sees two policemen and a prie
st. They look at him, come straight toward him. “What? Is it my wife?”

  “No, why would it be?” one policeman says.

  Two policemen and a priest. “May I help you?” Howard says. They hurry past him. “Excuse me, but is anything wrong?” They keep going, don’t look back at him, he starts after them upstairs. They go down the hall, stop at his door and ring the bell. “That’s my door. The bell doesn’t work. And you don’t have to knock. I’ll let you in if you want. Nobody’s home though. My wife’s out with our kids. Is it something about them? She took the car.” The priest says something to the policemen, walks toward him, the policemen stay behind.

  Priest and two policemen. “Yes?” he says. “Well, tell me.”

  “It’s true,” the priest says. “I’ve some news for you, very bad news. Give me your hand, sir.”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps one of the officers can stand beside you while I tell you.” One of them does. Howard steps away, looks at the priest who’s now telling him something, runs out the building.

  Two policemen and a priest. “Hello,” he says. They nod. He snaps his fingers, says “Excuse me, I think I forgot something,” and goes back upstairs and unlocks his door.

  “Leave something behind?” his wife says.

  “No, nothing. Then what am I doing back here, right? Oh, I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you. One of the oddest things just happened to me downstairs. I was on my way out—well, you know. Going to the mall. All very innocent. When I heard male voices and then saw two policemen and a priest on the ground floor and I didn’t want to pass them. I actually made up an excuse to them to get back here.”

  “Did they come to see you?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t see why they would. No, of course they didn’t. I think something terrible’s happened to someone in the building and I didn’t want to know. Maybe not even that’s it, but here I am and I still don’t want to go downstairs till I’m sure they’re gone.”

  “You should have left the building without saying anything to them and it all would have been past you by now.”

  “I knew I couldn’t. Something told me. And I felt if I had tried to push myself to get past them, I would have acted even stranger than I did.”

  “You make me curious though. Maybe something did happen. I’m going to see. Olivia’s fine, playing in her room by herself. If Eva gets up and she’s not wet, just hold her for a while and she’s sure to go back to sleep,” and she leaves the apartment.

  9

  _______

  Frog’s Brother

  He thinks about his brother. Puts the book down, drink down, lowers the pillows with the back of his head and then lowers his head to them, remembers the night he first heard the news. Shuts the light. His older brother called him over. Called him up to come over. Both brothers were older. Alex was three years older than he and four years younger than Jerry, the oldest child. Three years almost to the day. They sometimes—neither liked it much—celebrated their birthdays on the same day. Closest brother or sister in age, day of birth and closeness. Jerry called him at their parents’ apartment where Howard was staying then. “I got word today”—it went something like that—“word that Alex’s ship is missing.” “What do you mean missing?” Howard said. “I spoke to the ship’s shipping company. Asking what’s the status of his ship, when will it be in, and so forth. It’s been overdue four days. You knew that.” “I knew but thought it could be natural. A small freighter. It doesn’t travel as fast or run on the tight time schedule of one of the big liners.” “It could be it sunk.” “What do you mean?” “I’m saying sunk, went down. Everything. In the ocean. Word is another freighter got a distress signal a week ago in the area Alex’s ship was in.” “But lots of ships were probably in that area.” “That’s what I told this man, but he says no. None on any company’s log, anyway. They’ve checked. His ship was the only one known to be there, or at least from what’s been graphed as its position, comes closest to being there at that time, and we’re talking about something like a hundred square miles. Nothing came of the distress signal. It went on for a short time and stopped. It could even have been a portable transmitter from a lifeboat, it was so weak. Then a short time again—maybe three minutes, maybe less—and stopped. The radioman tried making contact with it to pinpoint it, but couldn’t.” “Oh come on, how thoroughly could one company check? Did it contact every ship company in the world that has ships crossing that part of the Atlantic, and did every one of these companies radio their ships that traveled this route? Are they also in touch with the ship companies of the Communist countries, especially the ones that won’t have anything to do with us?” “Apparently the shipping world’s very much in touch when something like this happens. And every ship that could have been in that sea lane was contacted in the last two days or had got in contact with its company or some weather ship out there.” “How do they know another ship didn’t go off its normal route and send that signal? Or sent it, then corrected its troubles on its own, and now isn’t saying anything about the signal because it wasn’t supposed to be in that sea lane.” “Look, I can understand why you’re taking this attitude, but Alex’s ship hasn’t made contact with anything for seven days. Two might be normal. Seven is practically unheard of unless their radio’s down, but even there, they should have been spotted long before now.” “So that’s it. No radio, can’t make contact, no other ship’s seen them because of so few ships in their lane around this time or some kind of heavy mist or cloud cover all the way west, storm’s held them up several days, maybe two storms, maybe three, and they sail into Boston Harbor tomorrow or the day after.” “OK, maybe you’re right—we can certainly hope so.” “I have to be right, right? Have to. No two ways about it.”

  Jerry didn’t tell him it over the phone. Called and said to come over. He lived a few blocks away with his wife and infant son. “What’s wrong?” Howard said. “By your tone, it seems very bad. Is it Dad? Something Mom didn’t want to tell me herself?” “No, Dad’s in awful shape, but no worse than a month ago. Just come over.” He did. They sat in the living room. Howard said “So?” “Have a drink first. Take a few sips, then we can talk. Simply to hold one will be good.” Doesn’t remember if he had one. Probably did. Any excuse at night to have a drink—today, same with twenty-five years ago. Probably scotch. That was Jerry’s drink. Good stuff too. Ballantine’s. Chivas. And listened to Jerry about the tremendous storm in the North Atlantic eight days ago, ship could have split in two and gone down fast. It’s happened with other freighters of the same make and class. “And from what I found out through just a few simple phone calls, the ship’s owners weren’t known for keeping their ships in great shape, having enough lifeboats, going over the maximum weight, things like that. It doesn’t look good, that’s all I can say. It looks hopeless, quite honestly. Hate to be so blunt, but believe me, if I’m proven wrong I’ll shout from a rooftop admitting it and fast for a week. Coast Guard planes—British ones too—have been combing the area for two days. But that’s standard operating procedure, I was told, and that if the ship did sink, just about every trace of it, except the slick, would have disappeared in a day. Twenty-two men on board, most of them Cubans. Water so cold that anyone not in a lifeboat couldn’t last in it for ten minutes, and the sea so rough that the lifeboats wouldn’t survive for a few hours. The captain was a son of an old patient of Dad’s, which is how Alex happened to get a free ride on the ship. That’s one bargain we all could have missed…” Howard just sat there, drink in both hands probably, said nothing, stared without seeing anything, body numb.

  He’s got the place all wrong. He got a call. Jerry was living in Washington, D.C. then. He said “Dad called with some very bad news. He didn’t have the heart to tell you himself, so he asked me to.” “But I just saw him and he looked fine. An hour ago, for dinner, he and Mom.” “And he didn’t say anything? You didn’t pick up on how they both looked?” “Nothing. We talked about what I was doing, her wo
rk, some big tooth he suddenly had the strength to extract today, baseball, etcetera.” “Maybe because they knew I’d call you later. It’s Alex, his ship. It’s way overdue. We think it went down. They do—the authorities, the shipping company, the Coast Guard, everyone. Hit by an iceberg, knocked over by a bad storm, ship simply splitting in half, they don’t know. But it hasn’t transmitted or answered any radio signals or been sighted or anything like that for eight days. It’s a little too unusual. There was something like the worst storm in ten years in the area his ship would have been in seven days ago. Sometimes these small old freighters can go a couple of days without being able to make known their positions. Their signals or receivers aren’t strong enough sometimes or its frequency interferences or whatever they’re called, and caused by God knows what, besides their shitty equipment. But never this long. There were also what one guy I spoke to called A-grade distress signals the night of that tremendous storm…”

  He read about it in the papers. He would have liked to. Liked to have read that the ship was found, or all the men were found alive in lifeboats, ship down. Didn’t happen. He imagines Alex going down. Ship splits in two, he’s sleeping, water’s in his cabin, tries to get out, ship’s mostly underwater by now, it happens very fast, he struggles, slips, lights are going on and off, he tries swimming to the door, gives up, water in his lungs, can’t keep himself from swallowing too much, doesn’t give up, tries keeping his chin above water, stands on a berth, a washstand, grabs a chain strung along the ceiling and pulls himself up, but the water fills up the cabin almost to the ceiling, he holds his breath, maybe the room will burst and the water all at once will gush out, some pain, suffocation, he’s dead. Eyes closed, his head bobs against the ceiling a few times, then his body rolls over when the half of the ship he’s in does. He sinks. Fish are already inside.

  Alex was the only passenger on the freighter. His father’s patient called his son in England and asked as a favor to the man who’s treated his family’s teeth for forty years if he could take Alex aboard free. Alex was in London then, wanted to get back home, had little money, could have borrowed plane or ocean liner fare from his parents or Jerry, wanted the experience of being on a freighter during a long crossing. Though he got free passage, he asked to work without pay at any job the captain wanted him to. He’ll clean latrines, even, he said in his last letter to Howard. Anything the lowest-grade seaman does, just to get the full feel of it and perhaps seaman’s papers for a paid trip later. He was a newsman turned fiction writer. Two months after the ship disappeared a parcel of manuscripts arrived at their parents’ apartment from England by surface mail. Maybe the manuscripts he didn’t much care about. Maybe the ones he cared most about he took with him on the ship. Howard read the stories and vignettes soon after and then some of them every three or four years till about ten years ago. He never found them very good, but Alex was just starting. Two diaries and some oriental figurines in the parcel also, and lots of letters from his parents, brothers, friends. He’d traveled around the world. Saved up for three years to do it. Did it for a year. A prostitute in a dilapidated hut in a small village outside Bangkok. Why’s that experience come to mind first? It was in a letter to Howard, not the diaries. He searched the diaries for it, thinking an elaboration of it might be interesting, revealing, sexually exciting. She was fourteen years old. That made Alex sad. She asked him to marry her. She said she’d be devoted, would learn to cook and make love American, bear him many children if he wanted, all boys if he wanted (she knew how), would return to grade school. He gave her his silver ID bracelet, pleaded with her to give up prostitution. Then he did it a third time with her the same day and came back the next. Talk about hypocrisy! he said. What’s the trick of turning a customer into a suitor? he asked. But one who’ll be good to her and an adequate provider. If he knew, he’d give it to her. Sent her a pearl necklace from Manila. If he got a venereal disease from her he’d worry more about her than himself. He might go back for her before he leaves for India, or send for her once he gets back to America, and maybe even marry her when she comes of age. Keep this between them just in case it does happen. Taught English to Malaysian businessmen for a month. Met two old men in New Guinea—Canadians—who were living the primitive jungle life. They were good friends of his till they tried to drug and rape him. He’s afraid he had to kick them both in the balls to get out of there and then steal their canoe to get back to town. Fell in love with a witch. Read Proust’s Remembrances in five nearly sleepless days, an experience that’s left him dreaming of the books every night for the last six weeks. A Goan fortuneteller told him his trip would end badly. He said to go home by plane, don’t sail. Remind him when the time comes, for the man wouldn’t take any money. Had a fifteen-year-old girl in Nairobi. What can he tell Howard?—he likes young girls. It’s more than just the way their hair blows and breasts point and bellybuttons dimple and thighs are so even. Maybe it’s because of all the girls who barely let him pet them when he was a teenager. Rode a camel through part of the Sahara. Ate lizard, locusts, grasshoppers, grubs. Never felt very Jewish before till he started hitting all the old synagogues and Jewish cemeteries he could find in the Orient and Middle East. Wait’ll he gets to Poland and Prague and also tries to look the old families up. He’s afraid it’s converted him, but not to the point of wearing a skullcap. Hitchhiked with a sixteen-year-old sabra through Turkey and Yugoslavia, though she might have been younger. When she had to go back she said she thinks he got her pregnant—her device wasn’t put in right a few times, she was so new at it. He told her he’s heard that one before, but if she has the baby and the calendrical configurations fix it as his, or just if she still says it is, he’ll love and provide for it, adopt it if she wishes and take it to America with or without her or emigrate to Israel if she prefers, marry her if that’s what she wants—she’s quite striking and clever and potentially very artistic and smart. He’s written what he thinks is fairly decent work recently, he said in his last letter. He’s glad he’s found something he wants to do for the next twenty to thirty years, has Howard?