“What a memory you have.”
“I don’t remember most of that,” he says. “Going into Grossinger’s for sugar and jelly doughnuts I do, but no note or wagon. Sitting on the curb eating a roll or doughnut I’ve no mental picture of, I think, other than for what other people’s accounts of it have put into my head.”
“Believe me,” Frieda says. “If you did it once, shopping with your wagon, you did it a dozen times. And when you got home, first thing you always asked for was one of those doughnuts or rolls or the end slice of the rye bread if it was rye. With no butter on it—no spread. Just the bread plain.”
“I remember liking the end slice then. The tiny piece—no bigger than my thumb—but which was usually left in the bakery’s bread slicer. In fact, I still have to fight my wife for it. At least for the heel of the bread, since it seems all the bread we get comes unsliced.”
“How is Denise?”
“Fine.”
“She’s wonderful,” his mother says. “As dear to me as any of my children, that’s the way I look at her, terrible as that might be to say.”
“It isn’t. I’m sure Howard loves to hear it. And your daughter?” she says to him. “Olivia? You really should have brought her.”
“Next time, I swear.”
His mother asks Frieda about her trip to Germany this summer, her first time back there in about forty-five years. Then she starts talking about the European trip she took with his father more than twenty years ago and especially the overnight boat ride their tour took down the Rhine. It was in this room. His father walked in from there, he ran up to him from there, arms out. From where he’s sitting—different table and chairs but same place, the small kitchen alcove—he sees it happening in front of him as if onstage. Two actors, playing father and son. “Frieda” must still be offstage or never gets on. He’s in the first row, looking up at them, but very close. Or sitting level with them, three to four feet away, for it’s theater-in-the-round. The two actors come from opposite directions—the father from stage left if that’s the direction for Howard’s left, the son from stage right. They stop, the father first, about two feet from each other. He points, with his arms still out, to his face. The young actor playing him does. He’s asking for help, with his pointing and expression. He wants to be picked up or grabbed. The shit doesn’t smell because it’s makeup. The young actor gives the impression he just tasted a little of it. But he’s not going to throw up. Howard didn’t then, far as he can remember, and that’s not what the young actor’s face says, though he does look as if he’s just gagged. The father bursts our laughing. He’s wearing the same clothes his father wore that day. Dark suit, white shirt, tie. Howard doesn’t recognize the son’s clothes. The father continues to laugh but now seems somewhat repelled by him. Scene goes blank. Curtain comes down. He’s left looking at the curtain. Or if it is theater-in-the-round, which it resembles more: blackout, and when the house lights come on thirty seconds later, the actors have left the stage. “Frieda,” he says.
“Excuse me,” she says to his mother. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break in like that, but there’s something I’ve often wanted to ask you about from the time when I was around five.”
“You wanted to ask me it since you were five?”
“No, I mean, what I want to ask you about happened, or I think it did, when I was around five.”
“Howard,” his mother says, as if saying, since they had talked about it a few times, not to ask it.
“What is it?” Frieda says. To his mother: “What’s the big mystery?”
“No mystery,” Howard says. “Just that your memory’s so good—phenomenal, really—that I wondered if you could remember it for me from that time.”
“Why don’t we keep it for lunch,” his mother says. “I want you to join us. Frieda already told me she wants you to come too. Have anything you want.”
“Let me just finish this, Mom. I don’t think, if I’m gauging her right, she wants me to ask this, Frieda. Thinks it might offend you. Believe me, that’s not my purpose. Whatever happened so long ago is over and past, period. We all—anyway, if it did happen, you were probably doing something—I know you were—that you thought right or necessary. Or just required for what you were hired for, or something. I’m not getting this out right—and I meant by that nothing disparaging about you, Mom—but just know I’m not asking this with any harm in mind whatsoever. None.”
“What could it be? The mystery gets bigger and bigger. That I slapped you a few times? I’m sorry for that. I never wanted to. But sometimes, sweet and darling as you were, and beautiful—he was such a beautiful child, everyone thought so—you got out of control, like all children can. Out of my control.”
“That’s true. They could be something.”
“I had three very wild boys to take care of sometimes, so sometimes I had to act like that. Rough. Mean. Slap one or the other. I always tried for the hands or backside first—to get control or they’d run over me. I had a lot of responsibility taking care of you all. Your mother understood that.”
“I did. I wouldn’t have accepted outright slaughter, but certainly corporal punishment is needed sometimes. You must do it with Olivia from time to time, spank her,” she says to him. “Later, against your better judgment, you might even slap her face a couple of times. You’ll see. Children can get to you.”
“I don’t know. If I did, I’d have Denise to deal with.”
“She too. Calm as she is, and reasonable, she’d—”
“No, never. Not her, take it from me.”
“But with Howard,” Frieda says, “I just hope you’ll have forgiven me by now. But if it had to be done sometimes, it had to be done.”
“Of course. I’m not saying. But I was talking of once when you—at least my second-rate memory tells me this—when you pulled my hair and a big chunk came out. Did it? Where I walked around with a big bald spot for about a month?”
“I don’t remember that.”
“Neither do I,” his mother says.
“To be honest, I do remember once putting filth in Alex’s face. He was in the bath. He made in it. Number two. I felt I had to teach him somehow not to. I don’t like it now. But that was about the worst I ever did, I think. In ways I don’t like most of it now, but then I was so much younger, a new foreigner here—well, you know. Also, since your parents didn’t object, and I always told them later what I did, I felt I had their approval. Am I wrong, Mrs. T.?”
“You had it. I’m not going to deny it now. Not for putting filth in their faces—this is the first I can remember hearing of that—but as Howard said, it’s past, finished. But no matter what happened, all my boys couldn’t have turned out better.”
“Did anything like that ever happen in my face?” he asks Frieda. “In the bathtub? Anyplace?”
“No, you? You were toilet-trained earlier than the others, so it never got necessary. A year earlier than either of them. By the age of eighteen months, if I’m not wrong. Two years at the most, and that’s for both things. You probably had the advantage of seeing them go to the potty on their own, and maybe even scolded or punished for doing it in their pants. So you followed them, did what they did or were supposed to—going to the toilet.”
“That’s the way it usually is,” his mother says.
“He was ahead of the other two in many ways like that. Reading. Writing. Manners at the table. It could be just the reverse with the youngest, but wasn’t with him. Dressing himself. Almost everything. Remember how you let him eat at the adult table, rather than here in the kitchen with me, two years before you let the other two?”
“Maybe because he was the last, and to give you a break from it finally, we let him join our table.”
“No, I remember. Because he ate. Because he didn’t drop things on the floor or talk loudly and interrupt at the table. He was a dream child. Active and a bit of a rascal at times, yes, but that’s not so bad if it’s not too often.
But sweet, good-natured, helpful most times—a real young gentleman with a much older head than his age. If I had had children, boys or girls, I would have wanted them to be the way you were more than like your brothers. They were good, but you were almost perfect to bring up. You listened and watched. And what I did to Alex in the tub was the only time I think I ever did anything like that. I can’t really remember it happening another time, before or after.”
“I don’t remember being toilet-trained so early. Well, of course I wouldn’t, but it’s interesting to know.”
“He was a dream child,” his mother says. “You never said it before, but I always knew you had a special place for Howard over the others.”
“I did, but not by much, you understand. They were all wonderful. I felt very lucky with the family I ended up in. But maybe Howard was just a little more wonderful. A little.” She smiles at him, reaches out to touch his cheek and then kisses it. He hugs her.
On the subway ride home he tries to remember the incident again. First of all, it happened. He knows it did or is almost a hundred percent sure. He runs to his father. First he walks bowlegged to Frieda, points to his crotch. She knows what it is, takes his hand and pulls him into the bathroom. She takes down his pants. His shoes—she takes them off, socks with them. Then she takes off the underpants carefully so the shit stays in them. She says “This will teach you never to do it in your pants again.” That’s new, but he thinks he just imagined she said it. Her face is angry. It was probably a thick shit, not messy. She puts it into his face. He cries—screams—and she picks him up and holds him in front of the mirror. He sees his face with the shit on most of it. Just then he hears his father. “Hello, anyone around?” Something like that. He squirms to get down, is let down, runs to him. She says “Go on, show him, and don’t forget to tell him what you did.” That’s also new, but he really seems to remember it. His father’s coming into the kitchen from the living room. Is in the kitchen, he is too. His arms are out. His father looks at him and bursts out laughing. He continues to look at him and laugh very hard.
4
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Frog Dances
He’s passing a building in his neighborhood, looks into an apartment window on the second floor and sees a man around his age with a baby in his arms moving around the living room as if dancing to very beautiful music—a slow tragic movement from a Mahler symphony, for instance. The man seems so enraptured that Howard walks on, afraid if the man sees him looking at him his mood will be broken. He might feel self-conscious, embarrassed, leave the room or go over to the window with the baby to lower the shade or maybe even to stare back at Howard. Howard knows it can’t always be like this between the man and his baby. That at times the man must slap the wall or curse out loud or something because the baby’s screaming is keeping him from sleep or some work he has to do or wants to get done—but still. The man looked as happy as any man doing anything with anyone or alone. He wants to see it again. He goes back, looks around to see that nobody’s watching him, and looks into the window. The man’s dancing, eyes closed now, cheeks against the baby’s head, arms wrapped around the baby. He kisses the baby’s eyes and head as he sort of slides across the room. Howard thinks I must have a child. I’ve got to get married. At my age—even if I have the baby in a year—some people will still think I’m its grandfather. But I want to go through what this man’s experiencing, dance with my baby like that. Kiss its head, smell its hair and skin—everything. And when the baby’s asleep, dance with my wife or just hold her and kiss her something like that too. Someone to get up close to in bed every night for just about the rest of my life and to talk about the baby, and when it and perhaps its brother or sister are older, when they were babies, and every other thing. So: settled. He’ll start on it tomorrow or the day after. He looks up at the window. Man’s gone. “T’ank you, sir, t’ank you,” and walks to the laudromat he was going to, to pick up his dried wash.
Next day he calls the three friends he thinks he can call about this. “Listen, maybe I’ve made a request something like this before, but this time I not only want to meet a woman and fall in love but I want to get married to her and have a child or two. So, do you know—and if you don’t, please keep your ears and eyes open—someone you think very suitable for me and of course me for her too? I mean it. I had an experience last night—seeing a man holding what seemed like a one-to three-month-old baby very close and dancing around with it as if he were in dreamland—and I felt I’ve been missing out, and in a few years will have completely missed out, on something very important, necessary—you name it—in my life.”
A friend calls back a few days later with the name of a woman she knows at work who’s also looking to find a mate, fall in love and marry. “She’s not about to jump into anything, you know. She’s too sensible for that and already did it once with disastrous results, but fortunately no children. Her situation is similar to yours. She’s thirty-four and she doesn’t want to wait much longer to start a family, which she wants very much. She’s extremely bright, attractive, has a good job, makes a lot of money but is willing to give it up or just go freelance for a few years while she has her children. Besides that, she’s a wonderful dear person. I think you two can hit it off. I told her about you and she’d like to meet you for coffee. Here’s her office and home numbers.”
He calls her and she says “Howard who?” “Howard Tetch. Freddy Gunn was supposed to have told you about me.” “No, she didn’t mention you that I can remember. Wait a second. Are you the fellow who saw a man dancing on the street with his baby and decided that you wanted to be that man?” “I didn’t think she’d tell you that part, but yes, I am. It was through an apartment window I saw him. I was just walking. Anyway, I’m not much—I’m sure you’re not also—for meeting someone blind like this, but Freddy seemed to think we’ve a lot in common and could have a good conversation. Would you care to meet for coffee one afternoon or night?” “Let’s see, Howard. This week I’m tied up both at work and, in the few available nonwork hours, in my social life. It just happens to be one of those rare weeks—I’m not putting you on. Or putting you off, is more like it. Would you mind calling me again next week—in the middle, let’s say?” “No, sure, I’ll call.”
He calls the next week and she says “Howard Tetch?” “Yes, I called you last week. Freddy Gum’s friend. You said—” “Oh, right, Howard. It’s awful of me—please, I apologize. I don’t know how I could have forgotten your name a second time. Believe me, it’s the work. Sixty hours, seventy. How are you?” “Fine,” he says, “and I was wondering if there was some time this week, or even on the weekend, we could—” “I really couldn’t this week or the weekend. What I was doing last week extended into this one, and maybe even worse. Not the socializing, but those sixty-seventy-hours-a-week work. I’m not stringing you along, honestly. But I do have this profession that’s very demanding sometimes—” “What is it you do?” “Whatever I do—and I wish I had the time to tell you, but I haven’t. We’ll talk it over when we meet. So you’ll call me? I can easily understand why you wouldn’t.” “No, sure, next week then. I’ll call.”
He doesn’t call back. A week later another friend calls and says he’s giving a dinner party Saturday and “two very lovely and intelligent young women, both single, will be coming and I want you to meet them. Who can say? You might get interested in them both. Then you’ll have a problem you wish never started by phoning around for possible brides and mothers for your future kids, right?” “Oh, I don’t know,” Howard says, “but sounds pretty good so far.”
He goes to the party. One of these two women is physically beautiful, all right, but unattractive. Something about the way she’s dressed—she’s overdressed—and her perfume, makeup, self-important air or something, and she talks too much and too loudly. She also smokes—a lot—and every so often blows smoke on the person she’s talking to, and both times she left her extinguished cigarette smoldering. He just knows—so he doesn’
t even approach her—he could never start seeing or not for too long a woman who smokes so much and so carelessly. The other woman—seems to be her friend—is pretty, has a nice figure, more simply dressed, no makeup or none he can make out, doesn’t smoke or isn’t smoking here, talks intelligently and has a pleasant voice. He introduces himself, they talk about different things, she tells him she recently got divorced and he says “I’m sorry, that can be very rough.” “Just the opposite. We settled it quickly and friendly and since the day I left him I’ve never felt so free in my life. I love going out, or staying in when I want to, and partying late, meeting lots or people, but being unattached.” She has a six-year-old son who lives with his father. “One child, that’s all I ever wanted, and now I think even one was too many for me, much as I love him. Since his father wanted to take him, I thought why not? I see him every other weekend, or every weekend if that’s what he wants, but he so far hasn’t, and get him for a month in the summer. Lots of people disapprove, but they’re not me. Many of them are hypocrites, for they’re the same ones who feel so strongly that the husband—so why not the ex-husband who’s the father of your child?—should take a much larger if not an equal role in the partnership. Well, it’s still a partnership where our son’s concerned, or at least till he’s eighteen or twenty-one, isn’t it? Do you disapprove too?” He says “No, if it works for you all and it’s what you want and no one’s hurt. Sure. Of course, there’s got to be some sadness or remorse in a divorce where there’s a child involved,” and she says “Wrong again, with us. Having two parents was just too confusing for Riner. He thinks it’s great having only one at a time to answer to, and another to fall back on just in case.”
Frog Page 4