21
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Frog
“Great, we’re in the car, all packed, ready to go, apartment’s been raked, burners all off, windows up so no to little dust when we return, everybody buckled up? sitting back?—so let’s get out of here,” and he pats Denise’s knee, starts the car, checks the street through the rear view and his side mirror, looks over his left shoulder, truck’s coming, “Come on, come on, you’re not supposed to be here except for a delivery and you’re wasting our precious time, we’ve a long way to go,” truck passes, checks the mirrors again, over his shoulder, all clear, same in front, even the light’s green and with enough time to make it, and he goes.
“Where do you want to eat tonight?” he says to Denise at the first red light and she says “You made a reservation for the Breakwater, so do we have a choice?” and he says “I made it a while ago, but you said you might want to change things around a little and go to a seafood place in Cape Porpoise,” and she says “We can do that coming home, for you didn’t make a reservation for that night also, did you?” and he says “I was going to tonight—to be safe, since it’ll be the Thursday before the Labor Day weekend; but then I was thinking the Breakwater’s gotten so expensive and fancy with the candles and no wine carafes,” and she says “Still, it’s close to the Green Heron, so you can walk the girls to it and I’ll drive,” and he says “You feel safe doing it?” and she says “What, the equivalent of two city blocks?” and he says “But your feet, you say they don’t feel the pedals,” and she says “Not right off most times but I’ll go real slow, and back the car into the Green Heron parking spot so I don’t have to pull out in reverse,” and he says “I’ll walk the girls, get them on the porch or inside and run back and drive you,” and she says “That’s a waste of energy and unnecessary,” and Olivia says “Is the Breakwater where they have the rainbow sherbert I like?” and he says “Dot’s de platz, hon,” and Eva says “I want rainbow sherbert tonight,” and he says “Only if you finish all our dinners—OK,” to Denise, “we’ll stick with the Breakwater—it’s simpler—but maybe for the last time.”
“Dinner, why are we talking dinner?” she says, “we’ve got a few hours till lunch yet,” and he says “Same place in Holland, Mass—Goodalls, Goodwalls?” and she says “If we can make it before the girls starve,” and he says “I packed a food bag just in case—those baby bagels, carrot sticks and such, even a tahini-spread sandwich for you, so we’ll try for it?” and she says “Do we have to settle on it now?” and he says “You know me, I like to get most things done ahead of time so with a clear mind I can go at the few things I really like doing,” and she says “Why don’t you then get your gravestone made and engraved and obit written and invite the guests you especially want at your funeral and unveiling and related rituals?—perhaps a big blowout after,” and he says “Nice premortuary talk in front of the kids, and please don’t mention blowouts while we drive,” and she says “Just asking but when did you make the Breakwater reservation?” and he says “To make or break the makewater breakavacation—when the Green Heron opened for the season, so around April,” and she says “Don’t you find that a wee bit something?” and he says “Maybe even March, but remember a few years ago in May when I tried for a room at the Heron and they were booked through Labor Day, so we couldn’t even stay there coming back?” and she says “A small affordable unassuming room for a night in a chic summer resort is one thing, plus we had four cats then, but a large restaurant where there are many other restaurants of supposedly similar size, quality, prices and view?—the worst that could happen is we’d wait half an hour to an hour for a table which would mean the kids would play and bother us a little, I’d read and you’d get semibombed on two straight-up martinis at the bar,” and he says “Well, I made it off the office phone, same time I made the Green Heron reservation, for the latter made me think of the other, and here it is today and we’ve nothing to worry or later be bothered or me tomorrow hungover about and no hour to lose,” and she says “That is something, I suppose,” and rests her head back, feet up on the dashboard, big sigh, shuts her eyes.
That a way, close yourself off and pretend to be tired when you want to get out of it—not fooling him. And what the fuck she going on about and got to be so tired over?—she sorted the bedding and clothes, that’s all, and too much of them, meaning more than he needed to pack, while he did his own things and the rest of the work to get them on the road at almost the exact time they planned for: loading, cleaning, yesterday’s pickup for UPS, scavenging the neighborhood for boxes before buying them at the store, car oiled and lubed, tank filled, tires, making all the calls for the paper delivery up there and cut off here, getting the phone in and utilities turned on, instructions to the post office here to forward the mail and there to hold it, last-minute shop, bringing the kids’ library books back, all the necessary checks, monetary and otherwise, in addition to defrosting the fridge—worst chore there is, with that refrigerator, other than changing a tire, which he’s done once a summer for years so will probably have to do it this one too—and gassing and burning himself cleaning the oven. His father used to say to him “I work and you’re bushed, no doubt from watching me.” What’s probably the case with her is she resents he can run around like that and do so many things so fast and efficiently so bitches or tunes him out. But for going back and next summer he’ll say help him out some by taking care of everything she can do by phone and sitting at a table doing a few pen squiggles and she’ll probably say she’ll be glad to if he doesn’t ask her to do it long before she has to or if he hasn’t already done it. She’s right on a lot of it—he likes to get things out of the way too much—and she does have her illness, but at least give him a little credit for all he did. It’d be nice if they had something else to talk about now. A book, Chekhov story he just read and she’s practically memorized, an elaborately interpretable sociological subject or news events, something that could carry them smoothly through the next two tedious hours of the trip, or a string of those, some interesting part of his or her life the other doesn’t know of or has completely forgotten and which would bring other things to mind. He was always awful at thinking up conversation starters while she’s always been good at it, being that kind of teacher and more of a listener than he, but it’s not something he can ask her to do: Think up some good hot topics for talks, otherwise we’ll be bored.
She knows why she harped on him like that. Physically drained, leg muscles ache, right eye’s not focusing right, not enough sleep, bad night with her bladder—you’d think he would have said something this morning she woke him up so often last night—but mostly him pressuring them so they could get out by the prearranged time: get dressed, finish your breakfast, this bag ready to go? the medicine chest cleaned out? pulling the half-eaten bowls and plates away from the girls so he could clean the dishes and table, sweeping up, then yelling crumbs, more crumbs, because Eva was eating a croissant and dropping a few flakes, without asking her shutting the radio off and packing it when she was cooking and listening to a piano piece she wanted to know the name of, nagging her how much longer she thinks she needs, half-hour she said, half-hour to her is always an hour he said, can she make a half-hour a half-hour this time? Another woman might think it not endearing, not amusing, ludicrous for sure, but something his advance planning, and he does take care of lots of things she hates to do but more likely is unable to, so, “helpful,” though not quite that either. But his compulsiveness and occasional rudeness in carrying it through cancels his helpfulness. If only he could say that sometimes he does things just a bit peculiarly if not wrongly, she’d say let’s open a good bottle of red wine tonight for she sees a start on his part of some sort of self-awareness. And please, to keep the peace, no more word games that make little sense—she hopes that fakeavacation was only an aberration and not the running mood of the trip.
She wants rainbow sherbert and she doesn’t want to share it with Eva. She’ll ask for her own cu
p, and if they say one cup with two spoons, she’ll say Eva has germs, everyone has germs, she’s been looking forward to it all year and she swears she can finish it all, and if they say if she finishes her portion they’ll think about getting another cup she can share, she’ll ask for her own flavor, lemon or vanilla or whatever there is except chocolate and coffee and anything with raisins or berries or nuts, since Eva will only want rainbow. If there’s only rainbow and some of those other ones she doesn’t like, she’ll go along with them but ask them to promise for when they drive back and go to the Breakwater that she can get her own cup of rainbow. If they can’t promise that she’ll say just think about it then and tell her later but don’t say absolutely no.
That man’s so old. He walks so slow that his dog’s going to walk away from him and never be seen again. She should shout to him to walk faster and catch up. Or to get a rope and tie the dog to it and hold on tight. They lost Kitty to coyotes last summer she heard them say when they didn’t see her, which is why Olivia and she hate the house they call the black house they’re going to. Where is he? Daddy drives so fast she can’t almost see the man and his dog anymore. “Daddy, you’re driving too fast.” “No I’m not.” “Daddy, listen to me, you have to slow down.” “Please, sweetie, don’t tell Daddy how to drive—Listen to her, Denise: Eva the boss—You forgot to order me when to floss my teeth and go to bed last night, Eva.” “Daddy, I don’t order you anything and I am not the boss. You’re not the boss either.” “I’m not the boss?” “Nobody is, but I want you to do what I say now—go slower.” “Eva, I’m serious, you’re distracting me, so pipe down.” “Don’t say pipe down. You said never to talk angry or to say shut up.” “I said to pipe down, which is like a musical instruction because of your beautiful singing voice—to make the sound softer and the feeling behind it sweeter.” “You said to shut up and I’m saying everything you say you say to yourself and not me and you have to slow down.” “Look at that linguistic construction,” he says to Denise, “when last year it was blur-blur-slow-blur-down.” “Shh,” Denise says to her, “don’t bother the driver.” Man, catch up with your dog or you’ll lose him and then you’ll be sad. She wishes she had a dog. A dog could kill coyotes or run away from them or get a bunch of dog-friends to gang up on them and chase them away. Not like Kitty who was old and blind and Daddy shouldn’t have let her outside for air. But they won’t get her one. He says they’re dirty and full of kaka and their mouths stink, and Mommy said if he doesn’t want one then she’ll have to wait till she’s old enough to get one for her own home. She can’t wait that long. There might be more coyotes then and not so many dogs and she’ll be afraid to lose it like Kitty.
“Look at this traffic,” he says. “The world’s ugliest expressway, the Cross Bronx, dividing the bloody borough in two.” “Why bloody?” Olivia says. “Because there are murders in it?” “Because it sounded good. ‘Bleak’ would have been more appropriate, but could I have said bleaky?—Should I take the left thru-traffic or the right?” “Stay on the right,” Denise says, “that’s always been better, even at toll booths for some reason.” “That so?” Considers. “Eh, I don’t know.” “I don’t know why you don’t, since you’re the one who told me it and a few times proved it along with running commentary.” “Well, if I said it then it’s got to be true, right? Right.” Stays right. Bad shot at conversation. Try to get something better going. “You know, when they were building this charnel house for cars I was dating a girl in the Bronx. It was a block or so from her building and we used to walk to it at night sometimes because it was quiet and unfrequented. Think of it: the Bronx, a walk, at night, not an Italian neighborhood, and we’d go there to look at the rubble and equipment and complain of it and of course to make out. But I knew even then what it’d do to this bleaky borough.” “You can’t say that,” Olivia says. “I know, dear—I remember—veddy social-conscious-head then—I used to get real hot under the collar as to what the city was doing to the Bronx. I was very anticar then. People, I used to say. What about the people? Well, I still say it, or think it, but not with the same fervor. Now it’s children.” “What’s make out?” Olivia says. “To take a good look.” “Like stare?” “Like stare.” “Was that Sharon Hirshkowitz?” Denise says. “You told me about her. Where she wouldn’t let you beep-beep or even close to it. And after a year you got so frustrated by it and other things in your life and the slow way things were going that you wanted to quit college and join the army reserves and get your service over with and they rejected you and so on. The one who married some big TV quiz-show producer and host after she worked for him as a secretary right out of college and later divorced him and got a few million plus his miserable expensive art collection.” “She would only let us play with our hands—down there—you know, temporary relief—but for more than a year and a half? I swear, I almost forced her to once and everything was off and she cried and cried and said she understood and was sorry and I stopped. We used to see each other almost every day at college and weekends, write each other poetry and a week alone at her sister’s house on Fire Island and that sort of stuff. What a waste. Imagine today?” “Oh, in some ways things are as prudish if not worse.” “The religious right, states banning every kind of abortion, some textbook censorship, the NEA thing, right? I don’t understand the particulars of that controversy but you’re telling me some government institution’s going to define obscene for me? Based on what the average person thinks—prurience, community standards and all that?” “I know; it’s absurd.” “But what do you think?” “Sharon? This expressway? The Bronx in general? The NEA?” “Yeah.” “I wouldn’t force myself on an expressway or want one, no matter how much I loved them, forced on me, but most of it the same as you.” “The NEA?” “What I said—absurd, odious. Careful, we’re coming to the Major Deegan turnoff on our right.” “Who was the Major anyway?—Not interested? Probably engineer corps. Maybe the guy who designed the Cross Bronx Expressway and the title’s honorary or he got it in World War II for shooting his general—Don’t worry I got it. My high school principal was a Deegan but that’s about what I know of him. Two thousand boys. He had a crewcut. I forget with an A or an E.”
Where’d she put her diaphragm? Doesn’t remember putting it back in the case or the case into the cosmetics bag. No, she put the case into the bag and the bag into their overnight valise but doesn’t remember putting the diaphragm into the case. Still in, she forgot. They should make one with a benign alarm in it to go off after the sixth hour or, if she knew she was going to be around anyone except her husband, to set it to just tickle her. Wanted… started…was playing with herself early this morning in bed when she couldn’t sleep. Thought he might be interested. He usually is with a little prompting and if he hasn’t done it in a day or since the previous night, and has joked it’s his duty to serve her that way whenever she wants. Joke or not, he’s usually done so except when exhausted or drunk. And if she tells him all she needs is a few minutes of vigorous fingering and him in her another few—this is mainly for sleep, no orgasm necessary on her part but be her guest on his—even better for him because then he’s home away free—after he finishes fingering, quick as he likes which she thinks he likes best even if he’s said slow way, long buildup, with her coming, is infinitely preferable. Got up to pee, put it in when she sat back on the bed, thinking better there than in the bathroom since it’d be a hint to him if he was awake and even a turn-on, that slapping sound, the jelly smell, and just watching her insert it. Kissed his shoulder, he didn’t respond. Kissed his neck and back—he was on his side turned away from her, didn’t respond. Felt his thigh, penis—at first she was sure he was pretending not to notice her. He stayed soft so he probably was asleep, since she never knew him not to respond somewhat when she really rubbed it except when he was exhausted, etcetera, sick or it was too soon after they last did it. Young men. Some could do it three times in a row, when she was young, which maybe had something to do with it—her body then, to look at
and what it could do and take—with only a few minutes to a half-hour needed between orgasms, and a couple of them could stay hard and in and start right over again and sometimes three times a night for several days in a row, which really made her ache. While she doesn’t remember him more than a couple of times coming twice in a night and with probably a few hours between. Quality over quantity? Not really. Some of those young men were just as able and felt as good, but no doubt most of them have slowed down too. She played with it a bit longer and then didn’t want to be a pest. Should have tried doing it longer to herself but her condition’s made it nearly impossible for her to finish even with him in her. And this morning, girls still sleeping, he was in such a rush to get things done for the trip that he was up before six. She said in her head when he was dressing “Come back to bed, I want to have sex.” Should have said it aloud, and if he just smiled and went on dressing, said something about what he’s said is his duty and that they can make it quick. Strokes his leg, he smiles, takes his hand off the wheel and squeezes her hand and puts his hand back on the wheel. “So we’re friends again?” he says. “When weren’t we?” “Lots,” and whispers “Come on, we’ve hated each other sometimes and a few times at the same time.” “I guess that’s true but yes, friends—you’re a dear, and do we have a choice?” Whispers: “You can always leave me. I’d never leave you but I’d never make a row if you left me.” “So you say about both.” “What?” Olivia says. “Nothing,” she says, “we’re talking—But didn’t you once say a young woman—younger by twenty years than you—last one you were with for a while before you met me—said that about you: that you would and she would never and a month later she ended up leaving you?” “Who did?” Olivia says. “This is private,” she says. “Just sit back, and you have a book there, read or look out of the window.” “I’m bored.” “So read. That’s what we got you the new books for.” Olivia picks up a book. He looks back at her, sees she’s reading, Eva’s playing with a doll, says to Denise “She had a venereal problem with a D. Not with a, well, I can’t find the right initial, but she wasn’t a hot babe—not like you. Maybe it was just to me because of the age difference.” “Don’t be silly. Dozen years later, women that age must still be attracted to you. You’re very X-E and you know it.” “Sure I do, sure I am, sure they are. But I told you she gave me it, this V with a D. Actually with an A, for ailment—initials that crawled.” “You did.” “But by the time I met you I’d been disinfected. Actually, she was the next to last before you. There was the one I met at the U of C reading I gave and which five people came to. My only groupie. She’d read a story of mine once, one of the three she’d read in her adult life—she was an English major so didn’t read much fiction—and since I was the only live writer of the three, she was impressed. After her I thought of going on tour—it was so easy. Are you married?’ she said, after I signed the photocopy of my story she had. If you’re not or you are but legally or mutually separated, I’ve a car outside if you want to go home with me.’ Later I learned she was mostly a lesbian. Pre-AIDS by a few months, so no problem. Now who knows what I’d do.” “So that’s why you’ll never leave me. I’m the only woman you’re sure is virus free.” “You got it. So, it’s the Breakwater after all? Settled? Because it has become pretty expensive and so chichi. That whole town has.” “It was always chichi but worse since the VP became a P” “Blueberry bagels, strawberry mustard, Kennebunkport air in a can. Farts, that’s what’s in them, a secret they’re able to keep for they figure nobody’s going to open the can. Fug ‘em.” “Don’t curse,” Eva says. “Don’t say fuck.” “I didn’t and don’t you. I said fug. It’s a dance. To do the fug. Let’s cut a rug with the fug.” “Don’t push it,” Denise says. “It’ll make it more memorable to her.” “Hey kids,” he yells, “a barge. In the water. So, getting closer to Maine. This river to that reach to that ocean. No cows or those immaculate clouds yet but I see them way off in the distance.” “What else you see?” Olivia says. “Hey, Country View Drive-in. Milton, the owner, feeding his pet rabbits and geese in those cages next to the outside tables and then racing back to the kitchen to cook up a mess of fishburgers. We’re on our way, Milton; see you for snacks in two or three days.” “What else you see?” Eva says. “Well, through the rearview mirror there’s grandpa leaving his building to walk to Zabar’s to send us some of your favorite plain bagels and cream cheese—he doesn’t see how we can live without them up there. And in front, but only as far as southern Maine this time—oh no, President B., his helicopters, landing in Bennyshlumpsnort just to crowd up the joint with reporters and secret servicemen and ruin our day—stay away. I really do hope he isn’t in for the weekend,” to Denise. “It’s always twice as crowded, even at the beach I take the kids to where the voters jam the shore hoping to see him at the wheel of his speedboat. I don’t know why they expect to sight him. Most of those Maine motorboat guys his age look alike—tall, gangly, angly, deepcheeked, peaked cap down to their long thin noses, but I guess no one else has gunboats preceding and following him and a flying gunboat overhead. ‘Oh look, there he is.’ ‘No, I think that’s him.’ ‘But they look exactly alike and same with their boats.’ ‘The first one’s an impostor to take the heat off the real B.’ Or how about what I heard on the beach last year: ‘I just got word on my CB he’s left the compound by boat ten minutes ago and is heading this way.’” “If he is in town I hope he jogs by the inn as I heard he does. It’ll be exciting, especially for the girls to see him—or eats breakfast there tomorrow, which he’s also done.” “Tomorrow’s Saturday, fish and zip-along-the-water day, so no jogging or breakfast away. Save that for after church on Sunday when the news cameras have nothing to do and he can wave at them. And I don’t want to be frisked by the S.S. a dozen times before I even take my first coffee sip. But can you believe it, everyone? Breakfast at the Green Heron tomorrow, tonight some fresh-picked crabmeat hor-durvy and local grilled fish, the best night of the year for me. Maine to look forward to for two months. And no beds to make, clean sheets, a clean bathroom, nothing to clean up, taking the kids to the beach before dinner if it doesn’t rain—please, dear God, no rain. Then back to the inn for a scotch with their rocks and reading the paper or a book while you bathe then. And after dinner back to the inn again, no noises outside but the distant shore banging and bugs busting their brains out against the screen. Beach and tree smells and those wild bush roses—and all this after a long car trip with only me at the wheel, no crit intended, so even better. And big comfortable bed with several fluffed-up pillows and at the restaurant a bottle of good wine between us or one-fifth you, four-fifths me, so from Major Deegan to major love, what do you say?” “You want it confirmed beforehand?” “Wouldn’t mind.” “If no major disturbances, I’ll be ready. Was, this morning, if you didn’t know.” “I didn’t. Why didn’t you moan something, grab or nudge me?” “Oh well, but you brought scotch?” “Sure, in an old applesauce jar, about four shots’ worth, but sealed with duct tape and then in a plastic bag and tied, so don’t worry, it’s with my things and won’t spill.” “Who was worrying? I just don’t want you to get drunk or have too much of a headache tomorrow to drive well.” “I also brought Alka-Seltzer and stuck a few aspirins into my wallet, wrapped in foil, just in case.” “Our exit’s coming up soon. Four or five, but you’ll know it by the one right after the Yonkers racetrack. It’s beside a big disorderly looking shopping center, and looks more like an exit to it than to 287. If I nod off for a nap now you’ll get us off this and onto the expressway OK?” “I remember how. Cross County, a.k.a. 287, exit to it on the right—keep a sharp eye out for it looks more like a turnoff to the center than an entry road to the expressway. Then Cross County to Hutchinson north or east to the Merritt Parkway and all the way to the end of the Merritt where we can either make a right to a road leading to 95 or continue straight ahead to Hartford on the Wilbur Cross. But you’ll be awake by then and if you’re not I’ll get you up to help make the decision between the two
.” “Wilbur Cross, why not? We’ve never taken it north but took it coming back last year and you said it seemed faster than our usual route: 91, 95 and so on.” “But the unknown. Will we know how to get to 84 or 86 or whatever it is out of Hartford? They were changing the numerals last year and it was all screwed up and we made it right to Wilbur Cross just by chance.” “It’ll be posted; they’ll have worked it out. After a year I bet there are signs still saying ‘86, once 84,’ or ‘84, once 86,’ or was it 84 or 86 to 184 or 186? No matter what, there won’t be a problem. New England isn’t New York City.” “Are we in Maine yet?” Eva says. “No, dummy,” Olivia says. “Don’t talk like that,” he says. “You’d want her to give that same crap to you?—No, my doll. First New York, which we’re still in, then Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire for not very long, California, South Oregon, North Oregon, Washington state and finally over the Piscataqua if that’s the name of it Bridge—I think Mommy calls it Kittery Bridge because it ends up in Kittery and has a nicer ring to it and she never wants to chance spelling Piscatooey. Then about twenty miles on the Maine Turnpike to Wells and 9 or 6 or 1 or a couple of those roads till we’re in Phlegmylunkpork, Lemonyjunk-wart, Georgiepishpot, Bushyposhfort, over the quaint Water Street bridge with hundreds of under-or overdressed tourists gawking around where to spend their next thousand bucks, right at Ocean Avenue at the souvenir-shirt shop and about a mile on it past Whale Watch till hello Green Heron Inn and maybe the green heron itself sleeping by the pond there. Supposed to be good luck if you see it but don’t wake it.” “Then my luck the last few years should have been better,” Denise says. “From today on, the Times’ travel section said. But lets hope no slip-ups, car-disrupts, torrential rains, wrong roads, souths instead of norths, wests instead of easts, or we’ll be behind in time and we all want to get there on the nose to carry out our plans, correct? and which I expect will be,” looking at his watch, “five-o-dot.” “Coming to our exit,” she says. “Slow down, stay right. You see it?” “I see it, I know it, now I got it—why you checking up on me so much? I could do it blindfolded.” “I know how upset you get—either of these two dividing roads in front will do, since they come together soon—when you miss an exit on a long trip and have to go back for even a few miles. Every time we miss a familiar landmark—the Charter Oak Bridge, the truck or moving-van billboard with the real truck on top of it in Wooster or Lawrence I believe—you say we could have crossed or passed it ten miles ago, if we had to backtrack five miles, or ten minutes ago and we won’t make it on five-o-dot and that sort of thing. Do you remember the worst one?” “Sure. You were at the wheel. I was navigating and the overhead Maine and New Hampshire and Cape Cod arrow-right sign wasn’t up yet, nor the left one to Springfield. Maybe just little ones on the side we didn’t see or just ‘Mass Pike, East, West.’” “I was pregnant with Olivia then—seven months… July, August, September—well, six plus—but wanted to divorce you on the spot.” “Good thing we weren’t traveling with two lawyers, a judge and court.” “I thought you’d never come out of it. The Big Pout I called it for a few years. For that wrong turn cost us about fifteen miles in the opposite direction before we could turn around, so thirty miles or thirty minutes or so and at the time you weren’t this generous to admit who was controlling the map.” “Forty minutes, ten of which I later made up by doing seventy-five to eighty over a long stretch without getting caught.” “What happened?” Olivia says. “Daddy was being so nice to Mommy she got all confused and made a wrong turn.” “No, what happened?” “You don’t believe me?—She doesn’t believe me.” “What happened, Mommy?” “You read too many books, kid,” he says. “You should be asking what’s a pout or ‘controlling the map’ means.” “I know what those are.” ‘That’s what I’m saying. You know all the words. But you should be asking what they mean instead of trying to find out the grimy details of every grim scene. Well, Ms. Drew, this case you ain’t gonna solve ‘cause you ain’t gonna get all the facts.” “What’s a pout?” Eva says. “A pout’s—oh, I’m lousy at definitions. Your mom’s much better at it.” “What’s a debonition?” “An endearing—agh, there I am using that word again as if I didn’t know it was a phony one and didn’t know any other. A debonition’s a real sweet pronunication of definition.” “What are they, Mommy—endearing, pruncation and the ones I said?” “A pout is a grimace, a scowl,” Denise says, “like this,” and pouts. “And pronunciation, which is how you say it, is the way words are pronounced, spoken. And definition is the meaning of a word. For instance, grimace and scowl are other words for pout.” “What’s meaning?” and Denise says “What I said—what a word means.” “It can also be an interpretation of something,” Olivia says. “Did you hear that?” he says to Denise. “Everybody—hey, fancy lady in the speeding Mercedes out there, did you hear that? My kid! Both of them, one for serious asking, other for her answers. What’s that?” Cups his left ear. “‘Way beyond us’ you say what she said?—And look, just noticed, hardly any traffic around—now we’re going, now we’re cooking with gas. And hey, everybody, Hay’s Farmstand in Blue Hill—just remembered. I don’t see it but I do smell it. Organic carrots and sugar snaps, seventeen varieties of red lettuce, blueberries with worms in them because they’re not sprayed—can’t wait.” “They haven’t worms,” Denise says, “or few that do won’t have live ones if you cook them, and don’t scare the kids or there’ll be more things they don’t eat. And I’m going to conk out for about half an hour now, you have the route straight? Were coming up on Hutchinson—” “I saw the sign.” “Left—it’ll be a sharp one—good. Next, Merritt, which it goes right into, and why not Wilbur Cross, since both parkways are overgrown so with less sun on them.” “Okey-doke. A shady journey. Say, good title for something, though nothing I’d do.” “What about the one I gave you,” Olivia says. “Slow and Low—you never used it.” “It’s good—who knows? The Slow and Low Stories; one character named Slow, the other Low; maybe one day.” “And The Lonely Bed, Eva’s title for you.” “That’s more for a single short piece or a children’s book. A bed that can’t find anyone to sleep on it because it’s too lumpy or hard. Or it’s in an old Maine attic or barn for a hundred years with no one to talk to but a mosquito or earwig before an antique hunter finds it, says ‘Hey, pure oak, great bargain,’ and goes through all sorts of purchases and fixings-up to make it sleepable. New mattress and box spring and designer patchwork quilt and sheets and maybe even a friend or two for it now that the insects are gone—a night table and bedlamp—before the bed’s finally slept on to its delight, so much so its springs squeal. Maybe we’ll write it this summer. Or I just gave you the idea, so you write and illustrate it.” “No, you the words; something for the two of us to do.” “OK, collaborators. But now you two rest back there. Mommy wants to nap, right?” to Denise. “Will music disturb you? “If it’s not clashy-bangy-squeaky modern or even a Scarlatti sonata too loud.” He looks in the rear view, sits up and adjusts it. Olivia reading, Eva looking at one of her books but blinking as if she’s about to doze off. “Fix her pillow and she might get two hours.” Denise does—“I’m not tired,” Eva says—buckles up again, rests her head back and shuts her eyes. His beautiful wife who always looks better to him full face than profile. Nose, chin, now sacks under her eyes only seen from the side. And what happened to her breasts? Used to look at them from this angle and up till not even two years ago they were always fat or full and jutted out, even after the kids were weaned; now like anybody’s; when they’re hanging over him, two of them just about fill his hand. Diet, disease, maybe the drugs. And her calves: mottled, ankles swollen, when before like, well anything but like alabaster or marble, but for now that’ll do: like the rest of her body except her buttocks: smooth, white. Her hair, always thick, wavier than usual today and with more ringlets; must have washed it when he was packing the car and leftover wetness and the humidity’s doing it. Loves those curls. Like, well anything but like a young woman in a Renaissance painting holding a sing
le pink or rose, but for now like one of those. “Don’t ever cut your hair more than an inch or two—please; don’t ask me why.” Eyes him. “Speaking to me? It might fall out from chemo, in clumps or patches, so be prepared for that, but I won’t cut or shave it—promise.” Eyes close, back to the look she left; usually falls asleep in the car with a little smile, but over nothing he said. Fair unmarked face skin, not just pale; big broad forehead with a big broad brain behind, yellow-green eyes he loves the color of but can’t look at very long. Maybe that’s the way with all light eyes: pretty but they don’t draw you in deep. Or they do draw but don’t eventually stop you like dark eyes do. Oh who cares and what’s she thinking? Probably just letting things come in or wondering why he brought up her hair. Why not her buttocks and neck? Well, he did think of her buttocks he’d tell her if she asked. Once fairly soft and large, now short and hard like a professional dancer’s or athlete’s because of all her exercise and weight loss, though pocked more than before: exercise? age? babies? not the drugs. Everything but the pocks he’d talk about. As for her neck, well anything but like a dancer’s or swan’s or a dancer dancing a swan, but for now that, and with her head arched back against the seat, even more. Or she could be thinking why’s he keep looking at me while I’m trying to fall asleep? Worried about me? Or thinking of leaving me because he’s afraid he’ll be forced to take care of me completely in a few years? Help me up, help me down, turn me over in bed to avoid bed sores, dress me, undress me, bed pans, wiping my ass, feeding me, wiping my mouth, probably no sex, pads all during the day, diapers when I sleep and my pains and complaints and muddled talk? Also what I might look like then—shouldn’t have mentioned the hair loss. But if he does leave, let him—just don’t take the girls and she’ll deal with it best she can: parents, friends, professional care. In other words: who needs the stiff if he’s going to screw around with whatever she’s got left to fight this fucking thing and make matters for her even worse? She wouldn’t use fuck in any form, probably not even in her head. She’s never said it around him except once when they had a big row and she said, after he said “Fuck you” to her, “Go fuck yourself too, you fucking prick.” When she wakes he should ask about the car smile and maybe what she thinks before she dozes off. If she asks why he could say he just wants to know someone else’s thoughts and thought process but his own. His work bag! Feels behind the seat on his right where he thinks he put it, feels Olivia’s leg, bag of Denise’s health foods, cooler, some books but nothing else on the floor. With his other hand feels on the left side but can’t get back there very far. Doesn’t like to take his eyes off the road for more than a couple of seconds but sits up, turns around and looks behind his seat. Bag’s there, Olivia’s reading, Eva’s asleep. Should have asked Olivia to look but didn’t think of it. Shouldn’t have panicked the way he did because suppose there’d been an accident because of it? His two kids, his wife hurt, maybe killed, and over his work? Not there it’d be somewhere, in the apartment, or if left on the street when he was packing the car and was now gone, then a great loss but not something he couldn’t eventually make up for most of it and for all he knows come out better than before. It’s happened—page mysteriously lost, page mistakenly used for scrap paper and tossed out—probably because he wanted to make up for the loss so much that he concentrated and worked even harder on it. If he couldn’t make up for it, if nothing came back and couldn’t be reproduced and he lost it all or what hadn’t been photocopied and put some other place, in the long run so what? But what’s he gain by finding or not finding it right away or later, for think of the risk he took. Well, if he found just now he didn’t have it in the car he’d stop and phone the doorman in their building and ask him to see if the bag was still in the lobby from when he took all the things out of the elevator and if not to go outside to see if it’s where the car was parked. If it wasn’t in either place he might drive back to see if he left it in the apartment, but he’s sure he didn’t. He remembers carrying it downstairs but doesn’t remember if he set it down outside the elevator or took it straight to the car. Actually, just to make sure, he’d ask the doorman to go into the apartment and if he found it there or in either of the other places, he’d ask him to send it express and he’d send him a check for it plus about twenty bucks extra. But the risk he took looking behind the seat while he drove. Pictures what it could be like now, a minute after. He’d be alive, Denise and the girls would be all over the place screaming, maybe no screaming, stop. If one of the kids died from an accident like that or lost an arm or eye, it’d end his life. Or sort of, or close to it, certainly worse if he was responsible for it, or even that can’t be predicted, but stop. And he said if his kids died, what if they didn’t but Denise did? He’d suffer, more so if he was responsible for it, or equally so, he’d be miserable for months, for a year, for a long time and then would try to hook up with someone and get married and have a child or two by her and having the new children which he wouldn’t have had with Denise would make up for it some he’d think. Suppose Denise asked him how much of her falling apart does he think he can take. Why’d he think that? Something from before, connected to his depressing thoughts, or even the cooler with her ice packs and cold cap for if it gets too hot for her in the car. He’d say—truth now, what? He’d say—Things are always difficult to predict, he’d start off with, how one would react to something like that. How does one know how accustomed one can grow? And by falling apart, how bad? If she said: on her back, couldn’t get up, had to be spoonfed or through tubes, body a bony mess, so on, he’d say he loves her, would never think of forsaking her under any circumstances—deserting, leaving—it’d be terrible for the kids besides: how could he face them, and if he couldn’t face them, how could he see them, and if he couldn’t see them, how could he live? Nah, getting too fancy and off the mark. What would he say after he said he’d never leave? That he went through this with his sister a little and a lot more with his dad and both of them for several years so he’s familiar how bad things can get and used to them he can become, doing things he didn’t think he could and being of some help. So, what’s to add?—he’s here to the end, no question about it, the end meaning till the end of their marriage, which means till one or the other of them croaks of old age as they used to say, and he hopes that works both ways. Scratch the last. She’d say he’s just trying to make her feel good, for he knows he’s as healthy as a horse. So was she, he could say to that, but that wouldn’t be too good either.
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