by Pete Kahle
“Girl at the store said they breathe water, Pa,” Meemaw said patiently. “She said they didn’t need nothing but food once-twice a week, and that they lived mebbe a year or so.”
Pa squinted suspiciously. “Don’t need to change the water?”
Meemaw kept cross-stitching, rocking back and forth on her chair nice and slow. “Nope.”
“No cleaning up no frog poo?”
“Nope.”
“No chance we gonna wake up one day and find a million baby frogs in there?”
“Nope,” Meemaw jabbed her finger with a needle, swore a bit, and stuck it in her mouth. “Grrhh strr ssdd bbb.”
“What?”
Meemaw took her finger out of her mouth and looked at it for a second to make sure it wasn’t bleeding none. “I said, girl at the store-”
“What store?”
“The new one in town, the one with all them books and games and learning stuff. Luther likes it.”
Pa drew in a breath to let Meemaw know, in no uncertain terms, that he didn’t give one red damn what kinda store Luther liked, and that no son of his should like stores fulla books better than football, and that anyone who stayed at home all reading books and stuff on the computer when he could be outside doing chores or running through the woods or learning how to shoot was highly suspect, but Meemaw cut him off.
“I said, girl at the store where I bought them said they were both boys, and there weren’t gonna be no frog babies.”
“You telling me you got the boy frogs that are homosexual?”
Meemaw shook her head. “No, Pa. I got him frogs so he’d have something to take care of, and maybe keep him company.” She looked over at the door to the boy’s room. On the other side of it, he was no doubt sitting on his bed, reading a book. “Boy needs something to keep him company.” Then she turned back to her cross-stitch, and the set of her shoulders said that there’d be no more discussion. You didn’t push Meemaw at a time like that, and Pa knew it.
He just grumbled under his breath that he’d rather of gotten the boy a damn dog instead.
Luther loved the frogs, and thanked both Meemaw and his Pa seven or eight times each; Meemaw for getting ‘em for him, Pa for letting him keep ‘em.
“S’okay,” Pa had muttered. “You just take good care of ‘em, you hear?”
“Yessir,” Luther said, and took them straightaway up to his room. He came back down half an hour later to announce that he’d set them up on the corner of his rickety old desk near the window, so they could get some sun once in a while, then ran back upstairs. An hour after that, he came down to say that he’d moved ‘em to the night stand, ‘cause it wasn’t near as rickety. A half hour after that, he came down to say he’d decided to name ‘em Dale and Cale, after Pa’s favorite drivers, and after that he didn’t come downstairs no more to talk about them, ‘cause Pa had made a good dent on the case of Genny Cream Ale he’d bought himself for Luther’s birthday, and he’d threatened to take a strap to the boy’s backside if he ran down the damn stairs one more time to talk about the damn frogs.
Luther got the hint. He went back up to his room, shut the door, and, by Meemaw’s estimation, spent the next hour trying to figure out how to tell which of the two frogs was Dale, and which one was Cale.
“Your son,” Meemaw said, and went back to cross-stitching.
Luther was good as his word when it came to feeding the frogs. He would have walked them, too, and housebroken them as needed, but since they were frogs living in a plastic box, he had to settle for dropping four tiny brown food pellets into their tank, twice a week.
“Looks like turds,” Pa grumbled to himself when he saw Luther do it, and wouldn’t feed ‘em himself until he heard Meemaw clearing her throat in the doorway behind him. Then he picked one pellet up, looked at it for a slow moment, and dropped it through the little hole into the tank. It sank, slowly, while Luther beamed at him and said, “See, Pa, it ain’t so bad”.
Pa grunted something that was pretty much just a grunt and watched the pellet fall. The two frogs hovered in the water, motionless, watching it slip past. He studied them and decided they were ugly cusses, with warty little faces and fat, soft mouths. Then, all of a sudden, one - Cale or Dale, he couldn’t tell which because they looked exactly the goddamn same - gave a little kick, and sprang forward, and gulped that little pellet down.
“See, Pa! Isn’t it amazing? He just snapped that right up!” Luther was all smiles and excitement.
“Disgusting, I mean, yeah, amazing,” Pa answered him. “You sure they can’t get out?”
“They couldn’t get the lid off if’n they wanted to, Pa,” Luther answered, all serious-like. “Can’t reach it from the water line.”
“Good,” Pa said, and stomped out past Meemaw on his way to the teevee room.
“I think he likes you,” Luther told the frogs, and dropped more pellets in the hole.
Come July, Luther got bundled up to go off to some camp or other. Meemaw’d arranged it all. She’d talked to the boy’s teachers and gotten him on the list for what she told Pa was a science camp for promising but economically disadvantaged youth. Pa had asked what that meant, and Meemaw told him that it meant for four weeks, Luther was gonna get to play with the sorts of things only rich kids usually got to.
“As long as he doesn’t get any ideas,” Pa muttered, and gave his blessing.
Luther was overjoyed. After thanking both Meemaw and Pa for agreeing to let him go, and promising to write every day, and swearing to be a good boy who’d make ‘em proud, Luther asked his Pa to do something for him.
“Feed the frogs while I’m gone, Pa? Would ya? You ain’t gonna half to do it but once or twice a week.” And Pa couldn’t find it in his heart to say no, so he agreed to feed the damn frogs while Luther was gone.
“Thanks, Pa!” Luther said, and flung his arms around his father. “You’re the best.”
“Uh-huh,” said Luther, and patted his boy on the back. “I guess I am.”
Days passed. Pa dropped Luther off at the bus depot, where a school bus full of kids just like the boy was waiting to take them all off to wherever the heck they were going. Luther sat in the back row so he could wave to Pa out the rear window, until the bus finally pulled too far away for them to see each other. Pa got back in his truck after that and headed back home.
He was alone in the house, Meemaw having taken her annual extended trip to go visit her sister in Branson. The quiet was nice, though Pa had to admit he kind of missed the boy running downstairs to tell him the latest fool thing he’d done at school. He sat down on the couch, turned on the teevee, and cracked open a beer.
Three weeks later and maybe three letters from Luther later, he remembered the frogs.
They were floating in their little cube when he found them. Cale was on his back, or maybe Dale was, but neither of ‘em were moving. “Aww, crap,” Pa said, and flicked his finger against the plastic of the cube to see if either of ‘em was still breathing.
Neither of ‘em moved.
“Now come on, you damn…damn frogs! Git up! Move around some! Tell me you ain’t dead!”
The frogs didn’t move. They just drifted, lazy-like, across the top of the water.
Pa cussed a little and grabbed some of the food. He crammed it into the hole so fast half of the little turd-pellets missed and bounced away. But a few made it into the water, and they either stuck on top and drifted with the frogs, or sank like indecisive rocks, slowly to the bottom.
Pa cussed some more, then picked up the little plastic box and shook it. some water sprayed out the top, and the sand and pebbles on the bottom of the case got all swirled around, but the frogs just bashed against the sides and then floated away again. Plus, Pa realized as he shook it, the water inside smelled bad.
Hell, it smelled terrible.
It smelled like dead things were floating in it. Which, he was pretty sure, there were.
Pa cussed one last time, then put the case down on the windows
ill. He considered calling Meemaw to ask her advice, but that seemed like a bad idea. She’d give him no end of hell about forgetting his promise to the boy and forgetting to feed the damn frogs, and what he needed right now was solid advice, not some goddamn guilt trip.
His next thought was that he’d just go down to the store where Meemaw had bought them and get replacement frogs. As far as he was concerned, all them looked just the same. And even though Luther swore he could tell Dale from Cale, he was pretty sure the boy wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
The problem being, when he called the shop where Meemaw had gotten them, the young thing on the other end of the line said they didn’t carry them anymore. She said they were a seasonal item, and this apparently wasn’t the season, and besides there’d been some kind of health scare off in Oregon or Minnesota or some place like that about how some of the frogs had come to the US sick with some kind of disease, and--
Pa hung up halfway through the explanation.
Time, he thought, for plan B. Which was to leave the frogs right where they were. Then when Luther came back and found ‘em like that, he’d act all surprised and say, “Well, they were fine the last time I fed them.” Which, he thought, was sorta kinda technically the truth.
But either way, Luther would get over it, and then he’d get the kid a proper pet, like a dog, or a, well, a dog.
And satisfied with his decision, he walked out of Luther’s room and shut the door behind him.
When Luther came home, he hopped out of Pa’s truck before it was fairly stopped moving. He ran right past Meemaw doing her cross-stitch in a rocker in the front room and went straight up the stairs without hardly saying a word. The door opened, the door closed, and Pa braced himself for the explosion. In a way, he was almost looking forward to it. He’d been practicing his “surprised” look for a week, and wanted to get some use out of it afore he forgot how.
Any second now, he told himself. Any second.
A minute passed. Then another one did. And another, and another. It was a full quarter hour before Luther came rattling back down the stairs.
“Thank you, Pa!” Luther said, grabbing Pa in a hug. “Thank you for takin’ such good care of Cale and Dale while I was gone!”
“I swear, they were fine when I--” Pa stopped and blinked. “I mean, of course, son. Gotta take responsibility for your responsibility.”
“They look great, Pa. Thank you so much!” Luther gave him one last squeeze, then ran back upstairs. “I’ll tell you all ‘bout camp later,” he yelled as he went. “We made a robot!”
Then his door slammed again, with Pa looking up the stairs after him, and Meemaw looking at Pa.
“I saw your face there, boy,” she said. “Turn around and look at me.”
Slowly, staring down at his shoes, Pa did. Meemaw nodded.
“Thought so. You didn’t do no care-taking of them frogs. I’m guessing you thought they was dead, didn’t you?”
Pa nodded, miserable-like. “They were dead. I saw ‘em. Shook ‘em up. Tried everything to get ‘em to move. They just kind of floated there, dead-like.”
Meemaw’s mouth narrowed in disapproval. “And you decided that you’d lie to your own son about that rather than take responsibility. I despair of the days I spent raising you, son, if you treat your own son that way.”
“I tried to replace ‘em,” Pa said, by way of defending himself. “But the store said they didn’t carry them no more, and that some of the frogs had been all sick, and--”
She cut him off. “Well, I’m thinking it’s more likely that you just went up there when those little fellers were sleeping and thought they were dead. You never were too too bright.” Pa opened his mouth to protest, but Meemaw shushed him. “Don’t argue none, ‘cause it’s true. Now you just go on up there and tell your son how glad you are that his pet frogs are alive and well, and I will make sure that boy never leaves them in your care again.”
Pa stared at her for a minute. Meemaw stared back, and as usual, Pa folded. “Yes’m,” he said, and started up the stairs.
“And don’t you have one of them fits of conscience and say nothing, you hear me!” Her words chased him the rest of the way, and he went into Luther’s room.
The boy was sitting next to the window when Pa came in, hunched over and talking to the plastic tank. Inside, the frogs didn’t seem like they were paying no attention, swimming in lazy little circles in the cloudy water.
“Son,” Pa said.
“Oh, hi, Pa,” said Luther, half turned around. “Didn’t hear you come in. I was telling Cale and Dale all about camp.”
“I thought it was Dale and Cale,” Pa said.
“Nope. Cale and Dale. That one there’s Cale. You can tell on account of the way he’s kind of got that little pattern of spots on his head, right there. Can you see it?”
Pa leaned in and stared at the frog Luther indicated, trying to discern any possible pattern of dots that might be visible. He saw none.
The frog - Cale, if Luther was to be believed - stopped swimming. It just held there in the water, bulgy eyes staring out at Pa. It made Pa uneasy, especially ‘cause that stare made him feel like that damn frog wasn’t looking at him so much as it was looking into him, or maybe through him.
A frog ought not to do that to a man.
“Luther!” Meemaw’s voice came up from the downstairs. “I need you in the kitchen, boy. Finish up what you’re doin’ and git on down. Those ‘taters ain’t gonna peel themselves!”
“Yes, Meemaw,” Luther answered. “You can stay here if you want, Pa. The frogs like you.”
“They what?” Pa asked, but Luther was already gone. Wind socks would have flapped in the breeze at his departure. Pa stared after him for a minute, then turned back to the tank. Both frogs were now floating upside down, eyes closed and mouths open.
“Holy crap!” said Pa and picked the tank up. “Don’t be dead, you can’t be dead!” He pulled the tank close to his face, staring in at the now-motionless creatures. “You were just fine a minute ago! Don’t you dare, you hear me?”
There was a moment of stillness. Then, sudden-like, both frogs flipped over and started swimming. One bumped its snout up against the plastic on the side Pa was staring into and, with infinite deliberation, closed one froggy eye for a half second. It held Pa’s gaze a minute longer, then swam away.
“Son of a bitch,” Pa said. He put the tank down and backed away.
Over the course of the next week, the tank got noticeably cloudier, to the point where Meemaw suggested that it was high time that someone changed the water. Pa wanted no part of it, but lucky for him, Luther said he’d do it.
“My frogs, Pa,” he said, and went off toward the kitchen.
“Why’s he going to the kitchen?” Pa asked.
“He’s settin’ out some water. Got to let it stand to get enough air in it for the frogs to breathe proper,” Meemaw replied. “Tomorrow, he’ll do the switch. Just don’t go drinking out of that pitcher.”
“Huh,” said Pa. “Imagine that.”
Pa couldn’t sleep that night. Every time he closed his eyes he’d see that one frog what ought to have been dead give him that slow wink, and that would make him sit straight up, all bug-eyed and afraid.
Finally, he couldn’t take it no more, and swung his self out of bed. The snoring told him that Meemaw was still asleep, and Luther had gone to bed hours ago. He snuck downstairs and into the kitchen. The pitcher of water they boy had left out was right where he’d left it, on the counter. Presumably it was sucking down air, though Pa couldn’t see it.
Instead, he picked up the pitcher and dumped the water down the drain. Then he set the pitcher back down on the counter and snuck right back on up the stairs to his bedroom. Those frogs weren’t getting their water changed tomorrow, no sir. That meant the lid would stay on their little case for another day, and that meant there was no chance they’d get out and do whatever it is that inch-long zombie frogs do.
He h
ad no idea, he reflected, what they might actually do - try and eat him, mebbe - but whatever it was, it was bound to be no good, and he’d stopped it from mebbe happening for one more night.
He closed his eyes and slept. And tiny dead frogs chased him through his dreams.
In the morning, Luther didn’t say nothing about the empty pitcher. He just filled it back up again. Meemaw gave Pa the stink-eye, and the frogs’ water looked a mite worse than it had the day before, but that was the extent of things.
That night, Pa poured the water out again.
In the morning, Luther looked at him funny, but didn’t say nothing this time, neither. And so they went back and forth, Luther filling it up and Pa emptying it, for the better part of a week and a half. Meanwhile the water in the little tank got a little fouler every day, ’til you could barely see the frogs swimming in it. Pa was just fine with that, but Luther wasn’t, ‘cause he thought his frogs might drown in the mess. So he got up the guts to ask Pa if he was maybe sleepwalking and pouring out the water in his sleep, and Pa allowed as how that might be the case (even with Meemaw staring daggers at him while he told the bald-faced lie).
“Then I’ll take the pitcher and put it in my room, and lock the door,” Luther said. “That way you won’t knock it over in your sleep, Pa.”
“That’s smart thinking, son,” Pa said weakly, while he tried to figure how he could get hisself into Luther’s room and dump that water without waking the boy up in the middle of the night.
Thing was, he couldn’t see how. And so the next morning during breakfast, Luther announced his intention to change the water that day. Pa choked on his coffee and shot damn near half a biscuit out his nose. Meemaw thumped him on the back until he stopped coughing, at which point he allowed that it might be best if Luther did that while Pa was off at work. To give the frogs time to get used to their new home, y’see, before Pa came home.
