Frog

by Stephen Dixon

  He squeezes her hand, she squeezes his, eyes still closed, smiles a different smile, one for him, but her face still facing front, takes her hand out from under his and puts it with the other on her lap. Why didn’t she keep it under his? Probably to tell him to keep both hands on the wheel. He turns on the radio. Damnit, Dvorak, dials around and back to the station he had it on, though it’s fading now so next time he turns it on it’ll be out of range, and turns it off. “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she says, looking at him. “Did the music disturb you?” “No. And we’re nowhere near Wilbur Cross, are we?” “You kidding? You were out for what, ten, fifteen minutes? We’re just about coming to Westport.” “I spoke to Rosalie the other day and she said when we’re driving up we should definitely make a point of dropping in.” “Was that a serious invitation?” “Rosalie; of course.” “But the ‘definitely make a point.’” “That was my wording, not hers. She even said to come for lunch. That there’s always something good there to quickly prepare and eat.” “It means changing our plans, taking the Connecticut Turnpike instead of Wilbur Cross—you want that? What about the shade? And that’s an hour, hour and a half at least at their place, even without lunch.” “Hour and a half at the most. And if it’s lunch, we got that out of the way, so maybe a half-hour’s been lost. And we keep saying we want to see them—” “You do. I like them but, you know…” “What?” “Nothing.” “We haven’t seen them for more than a year, so here’s a perfect opportunity.” “Perfect. But if you haven’t seen someone for a year when you could have, maybe that says something.” “What does it say?” “It says what it says and how do we know they’ll be in in about an hour or however long it takes? And they’ve a new place north of New Haven, so it might be tough finding even if she gave you specific directions.” “She did. They’re so easy I didn’t have to write them down. Off an exit, then a road, lane by the same name, all lefts, last house and only shingled one and we’re there. It’s five minutes from 91 and then you get back on the next exit, so you lose, or possibly even gain if it’s a shortcut, three to five miles of mileage. She said to call just before.” “That means stopping and calling.” “We could do it at the next service station. While you’re filling up and the girls are urinating, I can call.” “I don’t have to fill up; besides, gas prices are usually much more expensive on the Merritt, and you’re going to get out of the car to call?” “Why can’t I? Just hand me my walker and some change, and if there are steps without a railing, help me up, and that’s all. I’ll have to stop soon for a ladies’ room break anyway.” “That I’ll do, anything, but the Shostaks? She’s lively and likable but he dominates everybody and has no sense of humor.” “That’s ridiculous.” “Well, if he does have one it’s always done with a French or Latin phrase or is so erudite in English everyone laughs because they think they understand it or are afraid not to because of what hell think of them.” “Not true. He’s very generous and sensitive, maybe it’s the occasional inflated fool he can’t take, but he’s one of the rare big minds who listens to what you say and usually has something to say about it. After all, that’s one way of showing interest in your thoughts.” “Still, the guy intimidates me with his conversations. Ancient law and politics, modern history and linguistics, painting, literature and music of all periods and the decline of culture and end of the LP.” “You’re as much for the LP as he is and you love art and literature and serious music of all kinds.” “To see, read and listen to, not to talk.” “You like doing that too, about literature, and we always come away stimulated by our conversations with them. If’ll also provide us with some good road conversation, which I love doing with you. Unfortunately, that kind of talk doesn’t happen enough with friends or you. It’s movies, vacations, breakups, bodybuilding, running shoes, food.” “He talks a few of those also, but OK, he is stimulating and I like talking about books I’ve read with someone who’s read and remembered them, but not all the ibid.’s and op. cit.’s and minutay and stuff.” “Minutiae.” “Oh screw that word. When it’s too tough to pronounce, spell and know the meaning of and then how to place it in a sentence, hell with it, and think if I’d have said it that way in front of him. The eyes! And later ‘Did you hear that minutial brain? And he teaches?’ Really, I don’t mean to put the guy down, for he is all the things you said if also a bit domineering and windbaggy and too much of the can’t-abide-fools. And for an hour or two I can tolerate it for the stimulation and later the conversation it generates. But I just want to drive on, only make the natural stops. Pee, feed, gas. Maybe we can make more of a plan to see them on the way back.” “You’ll give a different excuse then if you remember you gave this one.” “So we won’t. But sometime after. In New York on our Christmas or spring breaks or invite them for a weekend in Baltimore if you like. But once moving, I’m a slave to getting there, not stopping off and frittering away our time.” “Frittering? Is that a joke? Howard Shostak and it’s frittering?” “Wrong word, not frittering. Schnickering, pelickeling, but we’ll stick to the Wilbur Cross?” “Stick, stick,” her head back, closing her eyes. Dvorak, when she was getting birth contractions with Olivia and was told by the hospital to continue to record them and wait, an all-night program of his music when he wanted to listen to almost anyone else while they stayed up in bed. When driving home from the hospital night Olivia was born, Cosi fan Tutti on the radio; knew it was Mozart but wrote the station and enclosed a self-addressed postcard to get the opera’s name. “Do you want a rest stop soon?” “Now that Eva’s up I could probably use one to avoid an unnoticed overflow.” “Next one I see and probably to top off the gas tank too, no matter what it costs. That ought to hold us to Bumpylumppen or the first gas station over the Maine border.” “Fine. Anything, right? to save time.”

  Mommy and Daddy are fighting again. It scares her because her ears are listening too much. Olivia doesn’t care. She sits there only to read and doesn’t worry if Mommy falls down and breaks her crown and cries from it or is yelled at. If he talks harsh to her again she’ll shout for him to stop, don’t dare do that, don’t scream, be nice, don’t be angry and mean, everyone here will hate you in the face and not talk to you ever. He has such a bad temper, gets mad a lot, Mommy only when it’s right. Now Mommy’s resting again it seems. That’s good because she’s tired and upset and before said her legs hurt. She wishes she could read because just looking at book pictures and the outside and into other cars except when they have kids in them and dogs and cats jumping around loose, gets boring. If they don’t have rainbow sherbert there she’ll make a fuss till they have to send away for it to a store. Are they in Maine yet? Probably not because she didn’t sleep. There’ll be a big bridge he said and the color of the road will change from dark to light and there’ll be more trees and beaches to see and cars with people in bathing suits in them and the clouds will have fishes and porpoises and seals. What’s a crown if she’s not wearing one and why do they say upset and not down? One year he said “Look, a seal,” and she did but he dived and stayed there and they waited but she never saw him. Daddy said he had a big mustache and glasses and waved to them before he dived. She wanted to know how come he said the seal was a he, did he see his penis? He just sprayed water on his window or it rained when she was thinking. It looks like the drops on top are racing down. She picks one with a baby’s face to win, follows it against another she hates because it looks like a snake, but the wipers wash the drippings away before her favorite one could get to the bottom. She should have told Daddy not to before he did, but then he might have yelled at her does she want him not to see and them to get into a crash? She doesn’t. If they died because they’re in the front she doesn’t want Olivia and she to ever go to different homes.

  Look at the reflection of the house in the pond. She should have told Momma about it but now it’s gone. Reflections are more beautiful than the real thing. They’re like paintings. They’re the ones that should stay, not the real thing. “Do you know what?” Olivia says. Here comes a gem, he thi
nks. I hope this isn’t going to be long, Denise thinks. Maybe if she doesn’t say anything. “Do I know what?” he says. “Reflections are more beautiful than the real thing.” “That’s a beautiful thought,” he says. “Where’d it come from?” “It’s not a thought; it’s what I said.” “I meant it’s a beautiful idea, observation, and don’t get so testy. But did it come out of nowhere? I’m always interested in where and how these inspirations or sudden impressions of yours come from.” “It is beautiful, dearie,” Denise says to her. “Reflections are like paintings.” Olivia says. “They’re the things that should stay, not what is real—the real things you see, I mean.” “That’s utterly amazing,” he says. “‘Reflections are like paintings; they’re the things that should stay.’ Someone should write down some of the things you say. Actually, your mother has for years, about all of us.” “I can write it down,” Olivia says. “Do you have a pen I can use, Mommy?” “Not on me this moment.” “You have one in your bag. I saw you put it there.” “I don’t want to try to reach it now. It’s near my feet and it’d be sort of a struggle, to tell you the truth.” “Then I’ll lose what I said.” “There’s always another thought or expression and I’ll remember it.” “Quick, what was it she said?” he says to Denise. “‘Reflections are like paintings. They’re more beautiful than the real thing. They’re the things that should stay, not the real.’” “‘Not what’s real’ or ‘the real thing,’” Olivia says. “Close enough. And my guess is you got it by looking at a house or tree above a little pond we passed, am I right?” “Yes, did you see me?” “I didn’t marry a dunce, did I, Olivia?” he says. “Her memory, way she figured out how you made the observation, which your daddy couldn’t.” “Mommy is not a dunce,” Eva says. “Don’t say harsh things about her.” “I said I didn’t marry one, sweetheart. Meaning she’s a nondunce—smart. And I said it affectionately. I love your mother,” and rubs the back of Denise’s head. Denise smiles at him, takes his hand and kisses it. “Oh look, they’re kissing,” Olivia says. “And the palm,” he says “that’s big stuff.” “What’s a dunce?” Eva says. They all laugh. “Don’t laugh at me.” “We did because you were funny and silly,” Olivia says. “I know you are but what am I?” “Funny and silly.” “I know you are but what am I?” “Please, not that refrain again,” he says. “Someone, save us.” “I know someone save you, Daddy, but who’ll save me?” “Hey, how could we have forgotten?—Fowler entrance to Walker Pond. Great warm-lake swimming, and I’ll blow up your tubes and you can play in the water long as you like.” “How am I going to get down there this year?” Denise says. “The car. I’ll back down it right to where the rear wheels are in the water.” “It’s too embarrassing. All the beach eyes on me as I tumble out of my seat and you run around the car to set up the walker.” “Hell with what people think.” “Easy for you but for me I’m not ready yet.” “Do they call it Walker Pond because some people walk into it with a walker?” Eva says. “Did you hear that?” he says. “Where’s she come up with them?” “I’m not going into that water,” Olivia says. “There’re leeches.” “So we’ll bring a salt shaker and go like this, shake shake shake, and the one in the thirty times we go there that might get you, will drop off. But I’ll stick by you and catch them before they get you. Then heave-ho with a stick and I’ll knock them out on land with a rock.” “That’s disgusting.” “Why? You don’t like them?—dead. You know, when I was a kid in Miss Humphrey’s camp in New Hampshire—” “I don’t want to hear that story again. Eva, he came out of the water every time with five to ten leeches on him.” “Great, you don’t want to hear it but you give away the ending. And not every time; just when the weeds were stirred up or something. Beaver Lake. Outside of Derry. I’d love to take a detour one time to see how the place has changed or stayed the same. I’m sure by the picture in my head and of the road and stuff from Derry I could find it. I even remember the cottage my mother stayed at when she came up to see us, Vera and me, for a day or so. And the toy she gave me—some pinball set—you know, where you pull a knob back and shoot the ball and it’s supposed to land in one of those semicircles or cups. And taking us to Rockingham Racetrack and the amusement park nearby, I think. And looking so beautiful and big-citylike—dressed so stylishly, and same with her hair up, compared to the locals. Though maybe that image of her comes from the photo I have somewhere of us at the amusement park, Vera and I eating ice cream cones and my mother behind us with her jacket over her shoulders. I even remember riding in the back of a car with her and maybe Vera to her cottage for the night. And that it was night, probably August, and looking outside and seeing the houses passing, and being given the pinball set and tearing it open in the car. Maybe I didn’t want to leave her for the night. I was so in love with my mother. She never struck me, rarely said anything but nice words in a low voice to us. And she must have only recently arrived that day if I was only then opening the gift. Though I suppose she could have had dinner with us at the camp and seen us swim and things like that and kept the gifts in her suitcase till we got in the car. But the leeches never bothered me in the lake. It was to your credit, even—Captain Bloodsucker they called you—the number of leeches you had on you over the next guy. And some man was always there with a lit cigarette—something good at last to say about cigarettes—and went tip tip tip and they all dropped off, one, two, three, ten. And after Walker Pond, well, hey, the Country View Drive-in again, or the Bagaduce this time for fried clams and a crabmeat or lobster roll and the best onion rings north or east or west or wherever it is of the Country View.” “I want Country View,” Eva says. “They put jimmies on your baby ice cream cones.” “You remember the jimmies and that they have baby cones too? What else?” “The cows and kittens and rabbits in cages.” “Cows in cages?” Olivia says. “Don’t, Olivia darling, she’s remembering.” “In the country, I said,” Eva says. “The kittens and rabbits and the geese that steal your hamburger buns.” “Incredible. You kids didn’t talk about it just before?” “No.” “I always thought kids her age had little year-to-year memory of things like that. What else do you remember there?” “The dirty bathroom where Mommy didn’t want to go in because it had flies all over the toilet seat and nobody flushed it.” Frog. Oh my God, Denise thinks. “Frog,” she says. “Frog?” he says. “At the Country View?” “Maybe they’re in the geese and duck pond there,” Olivia says. “We left Frog home unless someone miraculously brought him.” “I didn’t,” he says, “and I’m the only one who loads and carries things.” “None of that now. This is serious.” “I’m sorry, I wasn’t martyring myself again, I think, but he’s back home? What should we do?” “We have to go back.” “Go back? Maybe sixty miles along the way—-did you check the odometer before we left? For I didn’t but meant to.” “No.” “I think we’re getting near Stratford and the Wilbur Cross,” he says. “It’s got to be more than sixty, which is a hundred-twenty-plus miles altogether. Two-and-a-half hours out of our way at least—more, since we don’t do sixty, sixty-five in the city or on the Deegan or Cross Bronx and most of the times not even on this Merritt. And the Cross Bronx—did you see it going the opposite way? It was gridlock in the making, and later it gets, worse it becomes.” “Then we’ll go Saw Mill River to Henry Hudson,” she says, “but we can’t leave him. The windows are shut, his water will dry up, he has enough food for a day, he’ll be eating his own excrement.” “He’s just a turtle.” “But he’s our turtle, our responsibility.” “Why is his name Frog if he’s a turtle?” Eva says. “Don’t ask questions like that now,” he says. “I already told her once,” Olivia says, “and you did too.” “I forget,” Eva says. “Because Daddy didn’t want any name for him, thought him too simple a pet for one. If a pet can’t answer to his name, he said—” “Don’t explain now, I said,” he says, “we’re thinking.” “Then I’ll whisper,” and she whispers into Eva’s ear “And so when I said we had to have a name, that I don’t want to just call it Turtle, he said not a long one. No double syllable—da-da, E
ve-a, double, two sounds, see? So I said Frog from the Frog and Toad book I was reading you then.” “Why not Toad?” “I said stop,” he says. “Whisper,” Olivia whispers. “Because Frog was my favorite character of the two and Toad sounds ugly.” “Oh, now I know,” Eva says. “I’m sorry, Howard, I should have been the one to remember it,” Denise says, “since you were doing almost everything else. But we have to act now and that’s to go back.” “No, listen, there’s got to be another way. You don’t mind if he doesn’t spend the summer with us—just that he lives?” “Yes.” “So well call the Matlocks and have them get our key from the doorman and they can take care of him in their place for the summer. And if they go on vacation for a while—I think they said two weeks-give him to the Leventhals, and so on. We’d do that for them. We have done things like that—looked after their plants, picked their kid up at the school bus stop once. Well explain our situation, that we’re an hour and a half away already—” “The Matlocks are at work and who knows where their kids are—camp, probably, or with friends. Even if we get one of them at work, you think it fair asking them to take care of a turtle for two months—cleaning out its bowl, feeding it, worrying that it might die in the heat?” “They’ve air conditioners in every room. He’ll be fine. And we’ll say we’ll pay them for the extra electricity if it gets too hot for the turtle and the air conditioner has to be on for him when nobody’s home.” “But they should do this for two months when to get him it’ll be two-and-a-half hours out of our way at the most? Even if it comes to three-and-a-half hours, so what? If you want to do the right thing you have to pay for it sometimes.” “Yeah, I know, you’re right, but we have dinner reservations for six-thirty, I want to go to the beach with the kids for an hour before dinner and they want to too. I want to have a drink after a long trip and read the paper—” “We could always go to another restaurant there or Cape Porpoise for dinner as you said, and the rest of your entertainment you’ll have to skip this once.” ‘It’s June 30th, Friday, no less, the beginning of one of the peak vacation weeks of the summer. Suppose all of Cape Porpoise is booked tonight? We know nothing about the place except it has a couple of fish restaurants. And with dainty and dapper Kennebunkport we know all the decent restaurants will be filled around eight. Especially at eight. That’s when they finish their cocktails and want to eat after a long day in their gardens and on their patios and tennis courts and boats, and which is around the time we’d be getting there if we drove back now for the turtle.” “So well stop for dinner at a nice place on the way.” “I don’t want to get off the road except for water stops and a quick lunch till we get there.” “Then we’ll find a drive-in or diner in Kennebunkport like the Country View, bring beer and wine to it in paper bags if we have to, because I know that drinking with your dinner’s one of your main considerations—” “It is, I like it with my dinner but right now it’s not the point.” “Yay, please let’s go to one of those other Country Views,” Olivia says. “Nothing. I don’t want to hear anything from you kids, now listen to me.” “Don’t shout,” Eva says. “I already told you so.” “And I told you. Mommy and I are talking.” “You’re shouting.” “We’re discussing. Now both of you, shut up. I’m sorry, but be quiet.” “Don’t scold them,” Denise says. “They’re not doing anything. Anyway, we can’t ask the Matlocks—it’s just too long—and Frog can’t be left there and I can’t come up with any other solution but going back—We’re coming up on an exit.” “There are exits every mile or so on the Merritt and, if I remember, on the Wilbur Cross, so don’t worry.” “You’re making it worse for yourself. Further we go, less you’ll feel—there’s a sign for the Stratford theater now.” “I see it.” “Less you’ll feel like turning around.” “We have to turn around, Dada,” Olivia says. “We have to get Frog.” “I got it,” he says. “Your mother. She’d do it, wouldn’t she, take care of him—your folks?” “I think so,” Denise says. “But they’re going to one of their Polish hotels for two weeks in August and middle of July she’s spending a week with us.” “Your father can take care of him when she’s with us and we’ll worry about the Polish hotel later. Their cleaning lady—someone, one of their neighbors, or the Matlocks then. I know it’ll be a pain in the butt for them all and I’m sorry, but we’ll try to make it as easy as we can. They can give it to the Matlocks for those two weeks if their vacations don’t coincide. If they do, the Leventhals or someone, or I’m sure even my brother will drive down and take him for two weeks and maybe till the end of the summer if I really ask him and his vacation doesn’t fall in with theirs. And we’ll take care of the cab fare and everything else from our place to your mother’s and back to the Matlocks and so on. She can get the keys from the doorman. Tobley—he’s on till four today. If she can’t pick up the turtle by then, we’ll tell him to tell the doorman who succeeds him to give it to her. Or she can go up and get it herself with the spare keys, but we’ll have to call Tobley first for I’m sure he won’t give the keys to her unless we tell him.” “I don’t want her going upstairs and gathering up Frog and his bowl and food and carrying it to the cab; too exerting and heavy.” “Then Tobley or the other doorman or one of the porters will do it. I’ll tell him on the phone I’ll send him something. And till then he can keep the turtle downstairs in their little office till your mother or father comes, or go upstairs and get it when they come.” “Good, that’s what we’ll do. Stop at the next service station so we can phone everyone. You have the downstairs phone number?” “In my address book in my work bag. Or if I didn’t transfer it to the new book, which I’m almost positive I did, we can always get it through New York information under ‘Apartment Buildings,’ I think. Something like that. I did it once. Wait—oh crap. The doormen don’t have the spare set. We do, unless you took it out of the saucer on the piano and brought it down—remember?” “Remember what?” she says. “You forgot your keys—two days ago—and the doorman gave you the one spare set they have and you told me to bring it down yesterday and I forgot and last night you said for me to make sure to do it today, but you didn’t when you were leaving?” “No.” “So it’s there. Don’t the Matlocks have a spare set?” “They did but I asked for it back when I forgot my keys last week—I was upstairs when I realized it and rang their apartment and got them.” “Where’s that set now?” “In my purse probably.” “So why didn’t you use it to let yourself in the other day when you got the spare set from the doorman?” “I don’t know if I had that purse with me, but anyway, I forgot it was in it till now.” “Then I don’t know what to do.” “No, come on, we have to think of something—you’ve been great at it.” “Then this. I’ll call Tobley and have him get a spare set from management and even if it takes two days—we can tell him we’ll pay for messenger or livery service of the keys to the building—the turtle will still be alive. After all, he’s a turtle, and possibly a hibernating animal, or even if he isn’t or only hibernates in the winter—built for surviving under uncertain or changeable conditions. And everything won’t dry up or run out in a day and a half.” “But you know with management it could take three to four days. And if it gets very hot and with the windows up except for an inch in the kitchen, Frog might die.” “Turtles love hot humid weather.” “But if it gets too hot and humid in the room over a few days the oxygen in his bowl could evaporate, or whatever oxygen does—disappear—along with the water. And he’ll die that way and I don’t want the doorman—well I first don’t want Frog to die—but I don’t want the doorman to have to deal with that. It wouldn’t be fair. And suppose management can’t come up with a spare set? You know they’re totally disorganized and indifferent except for the first-of-the-month rent envelope in your box and an eviction notice if you haven’t paid in five days.” “Then break down the goddamn door, I’ll tell them.” “Fine if it’s your door, but they won’t do it for a turtle even if you say you’ll pay for it. No, that’s something where you have to slip the super some money and right on the spot and then later pay management for the door
.” “So let’s stop off at a town near here and send the keys express through the post office to the doorman and then call Tobley to say it’s coming. He or one of the other doormen will get it tomorrow.” “Suppose they don’t?” she says. “There could be any number of mixups. The wrong doorman might get it and not know what to do with it—a substitute, which there often is and especially during vacation time and sometimes they even have one of the porters take over for an afternoon or day. Or maybe the doorman Tobley tells you will be on and that’s the one you address it to, might call in sick or the schedule’s been changed and Tobley doesn’t know this fellow’s off. So it just stays around waiting for him.” “Then I’ll tell Tobley to have tomorrow’s doormen look out for the express mail addressed to ‘Doorman,’ and even for the porter-substitute, if there’s one, to look out for it.” “That’d be too vague. That doorman or porter might not want to deal with something he doesn’t know about or that might entail extra work for him. Or if it’s delivered around four or five, the evening doorman might just leave it for the morning one, and the morning one, well I don’t know—it might get lost by then.” “It won’t. And I’ll have Tobley follow up on it. And this is express mail we’re talking about, not regular, so no four or five delivery but usually around noon.” “Express isn’t always express. And why are you so sure a small town around here will have express mail? We could be spending as much time looking for a post office as it would take to get back to New York.” “All towns of a certain size do, and if the one we go to doesn’t, we’ll ask in that post office for a town that does. It shouldn’t take us very long.” “Why are you so sure it’ll get to the city the next day and not Monday?” “It’s delivered every day, Sunday included I’m almost sure of—yes, Sunday too; in fact it’s the only kind of mail delivered that day, or maybe special delivery too. And this is Connecticut, one state over from New York, so it has to get there the next day.” “Maybe not from one small town to a big city. But look, what I’m reallly saying, Howard, is we shouldn’t rely on it completely, even if we called the Matlocks, knew they’d be home tomorrow and Sunday and sent the keys to them to give to the doorman to get Frog for my mother or to get and keep him for most of the summer themselves. And if the keys don’t get there by Sunday—” “They’ll be there tomorrow.” “—the earliest Frog could be rescued would be Monday. And if it’s this hot and sticky today and it’s not even noon, and we’re on a mostly shaded road with our windows down and further north now and in the country, it’s bound to get even worse in the city the next two days, so it could be too late to get Frog by then. So we have to go back, please.” “Your argument’s absurd, or pushing it, or something, but just words to persuade me, no matter how sincere you are about getting him.” “We have to go back, please—also because I don’t feel it fair to burden anyone about this but ourselves. Pay attention. Wilbur Cross ahead and the road to 95, so let’s find a way to turn around now.” “It doesn’t make any sense to me, it just doesn’t. I’m continuing on Wilbur but don’t worry, if we decide on turning around the next exit should only be a few minutes from here and the one after that another few minutes and so on. But what I’m trying to say is three, if I exceed the speed limit a lot, but more likely four hours, and for a turtle? I don’t feel anything for him. I’d say to forget the whole thing and leave him there for the summer except I don’t want to think about the mess it’ll make for two months and then have to come back to it and clean it up. Nor do I want his carcass and stuff stinking up the building and for the doormen or porters to have to deal with it—maybe even breaking down the door if they don’t immediately find our keys, and then we’ll be out a couple of hundred bucks. But he doesn’t do anything but crap and eat and move around a little and occasionally snap at imaginary flying bugs and we shouldn’t even have him. People shouldn’t have pets, period, unless they need them for seeing-eye dogs or extreme loneliness or fighting off criminals, and those aren’t our problems.” “All that we can discuss some other time.” “But why did we get him? The girls were sad. Because it was him or a yapping bird because we lost the cats, which after a long enough mourning period I can say I never really liked and who were a stiff pain and I did most of the taking care of and cleaning up for—” “Another time.” “OK. He’s practically nothing to me. And why shouldn’t he be? He’s so insentient he wouldn’t know he was being hurt and dying if I did it with my own hands, I think.” “Right, and lobsters don’t either. Which is why you drop them into boiling water so easily” “What are you talking? I don’t even eat them at other people’s homes.” “That’s what I’m saying. You know Frog would feel pain if you dropped a drop of hot water on him and if there was no air, suffocation, and other things. That he’s aware we’re gone and not there to feed him, I don’t know; but that there’s nothing to eat, when that happens, and he’s hungry and then starving-come on. But we’ll improve things to make him more active and his life better. First, a bigger tank.” “Oh, I’m sure along the way.” “No, after we’re up there a day or so—during our big shop. It’s been on my mind a long time. We should let him walk around the room every day, in Maine or in the city. And in the country we said we’d let him go on the grass sometimes and in the lake, or salt water—whichever he can take; we’ll have to find out.” “I want to walk Frog on the grass,” Olivia says. “I don’t want him to die.” “So do I,” Eva says. “Frog shouldn’t die, right, Olivia?” “Right.” “Listen, everybody, please, hush for a minute,” he says. “I’m thinking of some other solution but going back for him.” “No other,” Denise says. “Next exit, we have to turn around.” “If we go back to New York will I miss my rainbow sherbert?” Eva says. “Almost everything will be the same except later,” Denise says. “Probably at a different restaurant, so regular sherbet or ice cream instead of rainbow. Or so much later that we’ll be eating on the way, so we’ll have to skip dessert tonight to get back on the road and in the Green Heron before your father gets too tired driving. But that means we’ll get something like it or the same thing tomorrow or the next day at a different place—Dick’s in Ellsworth, when we do that big shop there.” “I don’t want to miss dessert,” Olivia says. “So you think we should let Frog die in our apartment because you want dessert?” “I didn’t say that.” “Then what are you saying? It’s a long trip back to New York. And then a long trip back to where we are right now. And maybe even a longer trip to get right here because by then a lot more people will be heading out for the long weekend—” “Oh Christ, I forgot all about that,” he says. “It’ll be hell, and by the time we got to Hartford or New Haven, even worse, and when we got to the Maine border, the absolute pits.” “And your father will keep saying we could have been here three hours ago or so, four hours, etcetera, even five—we might as well prepare ourselves for five—besides what hell he’ll say it’ll be when we pass Portsmouth and are getting close to the Maine border and that once wonderfully freeing bridge. But when we get to the Mass. Pike exit he’ll really let me have it. For then he’ll recall the up-till-then worst driving mistake we’ve ever made together—I made, he’ll insinuate. But we can’t let an animal die because it’ll be convenient for us, can we? Sherbets over turtles—are we kidding? If Frog were a frog I’d say I don’t know but I’d probably go back for it. If Frog were a worm I’d say let it go. It’s small, it’d decompose fast, there wouldn’t be that much of a smell, certainly not enough to break down a door for, and it’s nowhere near as developed as a frog or turtle.” “The turtle isn’t so developed,” he says, “at least on the brain scale.” “It’s developed enough. It sleeps, it feels fear, it makes love, it lays eggs, it sits on them and fights off predators, and when they’re hatched it turns the little turtles around in the right direction to the ocean if that’s what kind of turtle or tortoise it is. It doesn’t come when you call or lick your fingers after you feed it but it’s smarter than a lot of us think. I’ve seen a film—” “Public TV again, where we get all our learning it seems.” “Don’t be like th
at,” she says, “you sound awful.” “I saw that film program too,” Olivia says. “Most of the babies couldn’t find the ocean and the mother kept pushing, and one time a bird caught one of them.” “I saw that too,” Eva says. ‘The bird was ugly and mean.” “You couldn’t have seen it. Even I was small, so you were too young or not born.” “How do you know?” “Stop it, both of you, all of you,” Denise says. “The argument’s over. All the arguments and justifications and I must have this and that and such. We’re wasting time—precious time, Howard. Forget express mail and the Matlocks and the mother solution and everything else. I don’t even want her going over there in this weather—either of them, my father too—and carrying Frog home. It’ll be too heavy and sweaty and they’re too old and might not know what to do with Frog and he could die from that also—that happened with my hamster when I was a girl.” “What happened?” Olivia says. “Nothing. I’m also too old for them to do my dirty work for me. That’s what you and I are here for each other and I wish you’d see that already. And when it’s dirty work we have to do together, we do it without blaming and ridiculing the other. We’ll all have to accept missing everything we planned to get—sherbets and scotch and newspaper and Captain Bush at the helm and the rest of it. If we make one phone call it should be to the Breakwater to cancel the reservation.” “They will anyhow when we don’t show.” “Well, to do it right, we shouldn’t have them hold it for even a half-hour if we know this long beforehand we can’t make it. Dinner on the road. Maybe we’ll discover a better place than we ever dreamed of and convenient, a minute off the road. No alcohol for you, or just one, but we might even like it so much and like coming to Kennebunkport already fed and ready for I don’t know what—just things we haven’t done there at night—that we’ll want to do it this way from now on. It’ll give us a few more hours in the city and where we don’t have to rush out so fast to be on time for this and that and forget things like Frog. And if we leave after a good meal, the girls will sleep for two hours in the car. So, sound good? Relaxed morning, not going to bed so early the previous night? Lunch at home, newspaper read over your second coffee and thus a bit less to fill up the car? Leisurely jog through Riverside Park rather than the early-morning sprint you say you always do day we leave? We can even sleep later, do a wash rather than leave our dirty sheets behind, and then a less anxious drive-no need to speed—Green Heron, bath, maybe a short walk or ride for an ice cream or a beer for you or something like that after we check in. Then, the next day, breakfast and a couple of hours for the girls and you at the beach before we start off, since it’s the shorter part of our trip. Anyway, who’s to say we could have done everything we wanted to today—beach and such—since for all we know it might rain.” “It’s not supposed to.” “You know? You didn’t have the news on that I’m aware of, even at home.” “The paper. When I was quickly going through it after I bought it to see if there was any mention of Bush planning to be there today and have dinner at the Breakwater. There was nothing, though the weather report page said Portland would be fair and clear, high around seventy-five.” “So, you’ve beached it with the girls every summer coming and going when the weather was good—one time they can miss it.” “I don’t want to,” Olivia says. “Wouldn’t you for Frog though? He’s supposed to be yours. Think of the thought of his death troubling you if you let him die.” “I’ll miss the beach but I’ll miss Frog more,” Eva says. “You’re only saying that for Momma,” Olivia says. “No I’m not. I don’t want Frog to die.” “I don’t either. But I’ve been wanting to go to that beach all week for its pebbles, and tomorrow it’ll rain or Daddy will say ‘Hurry up, let’s get out of here.’” “Believe me,” he says, “if I thought the turtle was going to die I swear, no matter what I said, I’d go back for him. But what he’ll have is two harrowing days—terrible ones, meaning—or maybe not even that bad. But two at the most if we make the calls today and send the keys express.” “Don’t try to bamboozle us,” Denise says. “Frog could die or get very sick. Did you change his water today? For I didn’t.” “Let me think. No, to be honest, not since yesterday. But it’s not my job or yours, even if I’m just about the only one who does it. It’s Olivia’s, not that I’m trying to make her feel bad or it makes things better for him.” “I’m sorry,” Olivia says. “I was going to but nobody told me and I was busy getting my markers and things together and I forgot.” “Then we definitely have to go back,” Denise says. “His water’s old and he does his stuff in it, you know that.” “I think we should go back too, Daddy,” Olivia says. “If we do can you get a book from my room I left there and want to read again in the car? It’ll be a long trip and I might run out.” “Will do,” Denise says. “You’ll get it for her, won’t you?” “OK, I’ve been overruled,” he says. “I’m going to hate it all the way back and then all the way here again and to Georgiecraphole.” “Why should you? Use it as an opportunity not to make a big demonstration about it—to just fume and rage through the trip how much you hate it. Rise above it for once. If anything, you’ll get that out of it. Maybe it wouldn’t be the first time you did that, but not letting things get to you the way you usually let them, and you might even end up thanking Frog for it.” “You mean thanking you.” “No, just Frog. And maybe he’ll understand what you did for him and from then on come when you call him. It’s a good example for the girls too. Please take this exit.” “No, I can’t change, not on something like this, but I will do it. Hey, we’re going back. Everybody buckled up? We’re all in the car, sitting back? Then let’s go,” and he takes the exit.