Frog

by Stephen Dixon

She sits at the back of his room during the lecture, laughs at all the right lines, claps hard but doesn’t come up after.

  “So how’d everything go today?” Wiggens asks at dinner. “Great bunch of kids,” Howard says. “Incredibly keen and bright. Wish I had some like them in my own classes.” “None of the girls made a pass at you?” his wife says. “Nah, I let them know I don’t come easy.” Wiggens says “That’s the best approach. Why get all messy in a day and possibly go home a father-to-be with a social disease?” “What nonsense,” she says. “One-night stands with students is the safest sport in town.” They drop him off at his hotel, he goes inside the lobby, waits till their car leaves the driveway and runs to the building of the reading. He’s already pretty tight. He sleeps through most of the stories and poems and the three of them go to a pizza place later. The housemate downs a beer, puts on his coat and says to Flora “Maybe I’ll see you home.” “Why’d he think you might not be home?” Howard says. “He meant for himself. He has a lover who occassionally kicks him out before midnight.” They finish off the pitcher, have two brandies each, he says “This is not what I’m supposed to be doing here according to Wiggens, so don’t let on to him, but may I invite you back to my room?” She says “I’m really too high to drive myself home and you’re too high to drive me, so I guess I’ll stay the night if you don’t mind. You have twin beds?” “Sure, for twins—No, OK,” when she shakes her head that his humor’s bad, “anything you want.” When she takes off her clothes in his room he says “My goodness, your breasts. I had no idea they were so large. Why’d I think that?” “It’s the way I dress. I’m extremely self-conscious about them. They’ve been a nuisance in every possible way.” “I love large breasts.” “Please, no more about them or I’m going to bed in my clothes.” They shut off the lights. He’s almost too drunk to do anything. In the morning he doesn’t know if they even did anything. He says he wants to stay another night. “At my expense, in this same or a different hotel if you can’t or don’t want to put me up in your house. Take you to lunch and dinner and even a movie and where we’ll start all over and do the whole thing right. The heck with Wiggens and his proscriptions.” She says “My vagina hurts from last night. You were too rough. I couldn’t do it again for a day.” “So we did something? I was afraid I just passed out.” “To be honest,” she says, “it was horrendous. Never again when I and the guy I’m with are that stoned.” “It’ll be better. I can actually stay for two more nights, get some work done in your school library simply to keep busy and out of your hair all day, and we’ll both stay relatively sober throughout.” “No, it isn’t a good idea. Where’s it going to land us?” “Why, that you’re way out here and I’m in New York? I’ll fly out once a month for a few days.” “Once a month.” “Twice a month then. Every other week. And the entire spring break. Or you can fly to New York. I’ll pay your fare each time. And in the summer, a long vacation together. Rent a house on some coast. A trip to Europe if that’s what you want. I don’t make that much, but I can come up with it.” “Let’s talk about it again after you get to New York, but you go this afternoon as scheduled.”

  He calls from New York and she says “No, everything’s too split apart. Not only where we live but the age and cultural differences. You’re as nice as they come—sweet, smart and silly—but what you want for us is unattainable.” “Think about it some more.” He calls again and she says he got her at a bad moment. He writes twice and she doesn’t answer. He calls again and her housemate, after checking with her, says she doesn’t want to come to the phone. Howard says “So that’s it then. Tell her.”

  He’s invited to a picnic in Riverside Park for about twelve people. He doesn’t want to go but the friend who’s arranged it says “Come on, get out of the house already, you’re becoming a hopeless old recluse.” He meets a woman at the picnic. They both brought potato salad. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he says. “I was told to bring the cole slaw. But I didn’t want to make the trip to the store just to buy cabbage, had a whole bag of potatoes around, so I made this salad. Anyway, yours is much better. You can see by what people have done to our respective bowls.” “They’re virtually identical,” Denise says. “Eggs, celery, sweet pickles, fresh dill, store-bought mayonnaise, maybe mustard in both of them, and our potatoes cooked to the same softness, but I used salt.” She gives him her phone number and says she hopes he’ll call. He says “I wouldn’t have asked for it if I didn’t intend to. Truly.”

  He was attracted to her at the picnic but after it he thinks she was too eager for him to call. Well, that could be good—that she wants him to call, is available—but there were some things about her looks he didn’t especially like. More he thinks of them, less he likes them. Nice face, wasn’t that. But she seemed wider in the hips, larger in the nose, than he likes. Were her teeth good? Something, but nothing he can remember seeing, tells him they weren’t. She was friendly, intelligent, no airs, good sense of humor. But if she’s wide in the hips now, she’s going to get wider older she gets. And noses, he’s heard, and can tell from his own, grow longer with age. Everything else though…

  He doesn’t call her that week. On the weekend he bumps into a friend on the street who’s walking with a very pretty woman. She can’t be his girlfriend. The friend’s married, much in love with his wife. And he has two young sons he dotes on and he’d never do anything that could lead to his being separated from them, but then you never know. Howard and the woman are introduced, she has a nice voice, unusually beautiful skin, and the three of them talk for a while. Her smile to him when they shake hands goodbye seems to suggest she wouldn’t mind him contacting her. He calls his friend the next day and says “This woman you were with—Francine. If she’s not married or anything like that, what do you think of my calling her?” “Fine, if you like. She’s a great person, stunning looking as you saw, cultured, unattached—what else? One hell of a capable lawyer.” “Why didn’t you tell me about her before?” “You mean you’re still searching for that ideal lifemate? I thought you gave that up.” “No, I’m still looking, though maybe not as hard as I did. Went out with several women—a couple you even met. Nearly moved in with one, but nothing materialized beyond that with any of them, which has sort of discouraged me a little. But if I haven’t found someone marriageable after a year, that’s OK too, right? I’ve still plenty of time.” “Then call Francine. She’s been divorced for two years, no children, and from what she’s let on in certain unguarded moments, I think she’s seriously shopping around for a new lifemate herself.” “What do you mean ‘unguarded’? Is she very secretive, uncommunicative, cool or distant—like that?” “Hardly. Just that some things about herself she keeps inside.”

  Howard calls her. They make a date to go out for beers. He feels she’s not right for him the moment she opens her apartment door. Something overdone in the way she’s dressed for just beers at a local place. Also her apartment, which is practically garish. The books on the shelves say she isn’t much of a serious reader, and same with the music on the radio, records on the shelf, prints on the walls. During their walk to the bar and then in the bar he finds she’s interested in a lot of things he isn’t: money matters, big-time professional advancement, exercise classes, gossip about famous people, the trendy new restaurants, art exhibitions, movies, shows. They walk back to her building. She asks if he’d like to come up for a drink or tea. “No thanks, I’ve still plenty of work to do for tomorrow, but thank you.” “If you’d like to phone me again, please do.” “No, really, I don’t think it would work out, but thanks for suggesting it. It’s been a nice evening.” “Actually, I doubt it has been for you, nor in many ways for me either. We’re a bit different, that’s easy to see, but I thought after a few times together we’d find much in common. Something told me that. What do you think?” “I don’t think so, honestly. It’s all right to say that, isn’t it?” “I suppose, but it’s probably not something we should go too deeply into,” and she goes inside
. He’s walking uptown to his apartment when he sees a pay phone. Call Denise, he thinks. It’s been two weeks since he said he would. He’ll give a good excuse if he feels from what she says that he ought to. That he’s been so steeped in his work that he didn’t want to call till now just to say he’d be calling again to go out with her once he’s done with this work. Or that he simply lost track of time with all the work he’s been doing and also some personal things that are now over. He puts the coin in, thinks no, don’t start anything, she isn’t right for him. Her looks. The teeth. Something. Plump. Not plump but wider in the hips and he thinks heavier in the thighs than he likes, and her nose. And so sweet. Almost too damn too—even meek. He doesn’t like meek and overly sweet women either who let the man do most of the speaking and decision making and so on. That’s not what he wants. He wants something else. So he won’t call her. He continues walking, passes another pay phone. Why not call her? Because he’s a little afraid to. Already his stomach’s getting butterflies. What would he say? Well, he’d say “Hello, it’s Howard Tetch, and I know it’s a bit presumptuous thinking you’d agree to this at the spur of something or another, but…” “But” what? Have a drink first. He goes into a bar, has a martini. After he drinks it he feels relaxed. One more. Then he should go home and, if he still wants to, call her tomorrow. He has another. Two, he tells himself, is his limit. Three and he’s had it, not good for anything but sleep. But he doesn’t want to be on the street with three. When he gets off the stool he feels high. He feels sexy when he gets to the street. He wants to have sex with someone tonight. He hasn’t had sex with anyone since Flora and that was around three months ago and what does he remember of it? Her large breasts, that’s all, which was before they had sex. He thinks of the man in the window holding the baby. The baby must be a month or two past a year old. It was April, right after his mother’s birthday, so it was almost twelve months ago. Today or some day this or last week might be the baby’s first birthday. The man might still be dancing with it at night, but by now the baby’s probably saying words. “Hi. ‘Bye.” The man might have slept with his wife 350 times since that night, made love with her about 150 times. That would be about the number of times Howard thinks he’d make love to his wife in that time. But there is that period, maybe a month or two after the birth, maybe longer for some women if it was a particularly difficult delivery—a Cesarean, for instance—when you don’t have sex, or not where the man penetrates her. So, 100, 125. The woman he ends up with will have to be receptive to sex. As much as he, in her own way, or almost. If more so, fine. And sometimes do it when he wants to and she doesn’t especially. That isn’t so bad. It isn’t that difficult for a woman to sort of loan her body like that, turn over on her side with her back to him and let him do it without even any movement on her part, and he’ll do as much for her if it comes to it. And if the baby was a month or two old when he saw it in the window, then the man and his wife might have just around that time started to make love again, and even, for the first time in months, that night. For all he knows, that might account for the loving way the man danced with his child. No. But call her. He goes through his wallet, thought the slip with her number on it was inside, can’t find it, dials Information, dials the number he gets and she says hello. “Hello, it’s Howard Tetch, from that picnic in the park, how are you?” and she says I’m all right, and you?” “Fine, just fine. Thank you. Listen, I called—well, I wanted to long before this but something always came up—to suggest we get together tonight. But I now realize it’s much too late to. I’m sorry. This is an awful way to call after two weeks, but tomorrow?” “Tomorrow?” “Yes, would it be possible for us to meet sometime tomorrow or any day soon as we can? Evening? Late afternoon for a cup of something?” “Excuse me, Howard. This certainly isn’t what I wanted to speak about first thing after enjoying your company at the picnic, but am I wrong in assuming you’ve had a bit to drink tonight which is influencing your speech and perhaps what you have to say?” “No, you’re right, I have, and right in saying it to me. I shouldn’t have called like this. But I was somewhat anxious about calling you, and just in calling any woman for the first time I’m not that… I get nervous, that’s all. It’s always awkward for me, no matter how anxious I was in wanting to call you. So I thought I needed a drink to brace me, you can say, and had two, at a bar just now, but martinis. I’m calling from the street, by the way.” “I can hear.” “What I meant by that is I have a home phone but was on the street, saw a phone, wanted to call, so called. Anyway, two martinis never hit me like this before. Never drink three martinis and think you’ll have your head also, I always say. What am I saying I always say it? I’m saying it now, but probably have thought of it before. But I also had a drink at my apartment before I went out, so it was accumulative. Wine, gin. I’m not a problem drinker though.” “I didn’t say or think you were.” “Little here, there, but only rarely in intoxicating quantities. Just that I didn’t want that to be the reason you might not want us to meet.” “All right. Call tomorrow if you still want to. Around six. We’ll take it from there, OK?” “Yes.” “Good. Goodnight.”

  He calls, they meet, have coffee, take a long walk after, the conversation never lulls, lots of things in common, no forced talk, good give and take, mutual interests, laughs, they touch upon serious subjects. Her teeth are fine. Her whole body. Everything’s fine. Profile, full face. Some bumps, bulges, but what was he going on so about her hips and nose and so on? Scaring himself away maybe. They’re right, all part of her, fit in just fine. She’s also very intelligent, not meek, weak, just very peaceful, thoughtful, subdued, seemingly content with her life for the most part. They take the same bus home, he gets off first and says he’ll call her soon, she says “That’ll be nice,” waves to him from the bus as it passes. He doesn’t call her the next week. First he thinks give it a day or two before you call; see what you think. Then: this could get serious and something tells him she’s still not exactly right for him. She’s a serious person and would never have anything to do with him in any other way and maybe playing around is what he really wants right now. She may even be too intelligent for him, needing someone with larger ideas, deeper thoughts, better or differently read, a cleverer quicker way about him, smooth-spoken; she’d tire of him quickly.

  He calls a woman he used to go out with but was never serious about more than a year ago and she says “Hello, Howard, what is it?” “Oops, doesn’t sound good. Maybe I called at a wrong time.” “Simply that you called is a surprise. How is everything?” “Thank you. Everything’s fine. I thought you might want to get together. Been a while. What are you doing now, for instance?” “You’re horny.” “No I’m not.” “You only used to call when you were horny. Call me when you’re feeling like a normal human being. When you want to have dinner out, talk over whatever there’s to talk over, but not to go to bed. I’m seeing someone. Even if I weren’t. I could never again be around for you only when you have your hot pants on.” “Of course. I didn’t know you thought I was doing that. But I understand, will do as you say.” The phone talk makes him horny. He goes out to buy a magazine with photos of nude women in it. He buys the raunchiest magazine he can find just from the cover photo and what the cover says is inside, sticks it under his arm inside his jacket, dumps it in a trash can a block away. He really doesn’t like those magazines. Also something about having them in his apartment, and why not do something different with the rutty feeling he’s got. A whorehouse. He buys a weekly at another newsstand that has articles on sex, graphic photos of couples, and in the back a couple of pages where they rate whorehouses, single bars, porno flicks, peep shows and sex shops in the city. He goes home to read it. There’s one on East Fifty-fourth that sounds all right. “Knockout gals, free drink, private showers, classy & tip-top.” He goes outside and waits at a bus stop for a bus to take him to West Fifty-seventh, where he’ll catch the crosstown. He has enough cash on him even if they charge a little more than the fifty dollars the weekl
y said they did, plus another ten for a tip. He wants to do it that much. He gets off at Sixty-fifth—butterflies again—will walk the rest of the way while he thinks if what he’s doing is so smart. The woman could have a disease. One can always get rid of it with drugs. But some last longer than that. You have to experiment with several drugs before one works. And suppose there’s one that can’t be cured with drugs or not for years? No, those places—the expensive ones—are clean. They have to be or they’d lose their clients. He keeps walking to the house. Stops at a bar for a martini just to get back the sex feeling he had, has two, heads for the house again feeling good. No, this is ridiculous. His whoring days are over. They have been for about ten years. He’d feel embarrassed walking in and out of one; just saying what he’s there for to the person at the front desk, if that’s what they have, and then making small talk or not talk with the women inside, if they just sit around waiting for the men to choose them—even looking at the other men in the room would be embarrassing—and then with the woman he chooses. “What do you like, Howard?” or whatever name he gives. Howard. Why not? No last one. “You want me to do this or that or both or maybe you want to try something different?” It just isn’t right besides. He still wants very much to have sex tonight—with a stranger, even—but not to pay for it. A singles bar? What are the chances? For him, nil, or near to it. He doesn’t feel he has it in him anymore to approach women there or really anywhere. To even walk into one and find a free place at the bar would be difficult for him. Maybe Denise would see him this late. Try. If she doesn’t want him up, she’ll say so quickly enough. Or just say to her “You think it’s too late to meet for a beer?” If she says something like “It’s too late for me to go outside, why don’t you come here,” then he’ll know she wants to have sex with him. She wouldn’t have him up this late for any other reason. And if he comes up at this hour, shell know what he’s coming up for. If she can meet at a bar, then fine, he’ll start his approach from there. Suppose she gets angry at him for calling so late and being so obvious in what he wants of her, expecially after he said a week ago he’d call her soon? Then that’s it with her then, since he doesn’t feel there’ll be anything very deep between them, so what he’s really after is just sex. But don’t call from a pay phone on the street. She may think he always walks the streets at night and get turned off by that.