The Night I got Lucky

by Laura Caldwell

  “Aren’t you getting out?” I said.

  “Not now.” He grinned.

  “Well…” I stood there, unsure, not trusting myself. The doors began to slide shut. Evan stuck his arm out to stop them, then grabbed my hand and pulled me inside.

  “How are you?” he said. Normal words, casual words, but his voice was low and deep, and his hand still held mine.

  I pulled it away. “Fine, thank you. You?”

  “What’s with the formalities?”

  I couldn’t think of an answer.

  “Are you leaving for the day?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, Ev. You can’t. I can’t.”

  Ignoring me, he moved closer. “We’ll pick up from where we left off last week.” He put one arm on the wall behind me. My mouth went dry. I licked my lips, which Evan seemed to interpret as a come-on. His eyes closed and his mouth parted. He leaned toward me.

  “Goddamned frog!” I said.

  His eyes shot open. “What?”

  “Sorry. Nothing.” I wriggled out from under his arm, just as the elevator reached the lobby. “Got to go.” I darted through the lobby and onto Michigan Avenue before he could stop me.

  When I reached my condo, I asked the cab driver to wait. With the sense of purpose back in my step, I went straight to the bedroom and grabbed the frog. I was no longer scared of it; I was sick of it.

  “Can you take me to North Avenue Beach?” I asked the cab driver.

  “Whatever you want.”

  I jumped out when the cab pulled behind the beachside restaurant, and I walked to the wide sidewalk edging the lake. The weather was beautiful again, and joggers, bicyclists and in-line skaters jockeyed for space. A few eager souls were lying in bathing suits on the smooth sand. The lake was teal-blue and calm. I joined the crowds on the sidewalk and headed for the cement pier that would take me directly over the lake. I walked to the very end. A lone fisherman sat there, his chin tucked into his chest, dozing.

  I slid my hand in my pocket and took out the frog. Without looking at it, I ran my hand over the little bumps on its back, the rounded haunches. I was slightly more mellow now that I was surrounded by Lake Michigan. The frog wasn’t a bad thing, I thought, just something that needed to go. Its time with me was over.

  I stared down at the lake, too deep to see the bottom. I turned and looked across the expanse of it. Indiana and Michigan were somewhere over there, but this lake was large enough to hide them. Was it big enough to hide a little frog and keep it hidden?

  With one movement, I drew my shoulder back, imagining myself as a baseball pitcher, and with a whip of my arm, I launched the frog. It sailed about thirty feet, making a beautiful streak of green across the pale blue sky, before it landed with a smooth plunk, barely causing a ripple.

  “You little fucker.”

  “Hmm?” Chris said, and rolled over.

  I stood up from the bed and crossed my arms, looking at the nightstand. It was back. The damned thing was back. “How did you get out of the lake?”

  “What?” Chris said.

  I grabbed the frog, along with the cordless phone, and took them into the bathroom. I set the frog on the counter, facing it away, but the reflection of its eyes still stared at me from the mirror. I dialed Blinda’s number. I knew it by heart from all the times I’d tried it. Again, that same damned message with that same musical voice of hers-I’m out of the office for a while.

  “Goddamn it!” I yelled.

  “You okay?” I heard Chris say from behind the door.

  “Fine,” I called back, but I then muttered again, “you little fucker.”

  I swiveled the frog around and studied it, as if it would give me the answer on how to properly execute it. Its slash of a mouth looked wider, its tiny face more pleased. I would have to try harder. I would kill this thing.

  I took the frog to Lincoln Park Zoo. When no one was looking, I lobbed it into the corral with the elephants, smiling at the thought of those massive gray feet squashing the crap out of that little green amphibian.

  The next morning, it was back on my nightstand.

  I took it on the El platform, and threw it under the tracks before the train passed.

  The next morning, it was back on my nightstand.

  The day after my El trip, I left the office at lunch and went straight to the Art Institute, patting the lion at the top. I’d been to the Institute when the bizarreness started a few weeks ago, and although the ancient loveliness of the paintings and artifacts hadn’t helped erase my worries then, it was worth trying again. A jittery dread had taken over my body, a feeling of moving on a predetermined highway from which there was no exit.

  It was a Friday, so the museum was fairly crowded. Instead of heading for the busier rooms, I slipped in the Chinese/Japanese hall, which I usually overlooked. But today I felt pulled inside, as if something was waiting for me. And it was. At the back of the room, next to a thin jade vase was a tiny, wide-mouthed frog the size of a nickel, also made of jade. It looked precisely like my frog-there was the lily pad beneath the frog’s rounded legs; his mouth was a long slash that ran under the eyes. I peered closer, my arms behind my back. Near the frog’s case was a white printed card that read Shang Dynasty 1700 B.C.-1050 B.C. Originally part of a pair, the frog-on-lily icons were initially said to have brought great fortune to the dynasty. After disaster befell many family members, it was believed the frogs had brought about ruin.

  I stepped back from the card as if shocked with a cattle prod. Ruin, I thought. A powerful word that seemed to signify volcanoes and locusts and mayhem. Was that what would become of me if I held on to the frog? Ruin? And was it possible that my frog was somehow the other side of the pair?

  I swiveled around and marched through the halls until I found the administrative offices for the Institute.

  “May I see the curator?” I said to the receptionist, a woman about my age.

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but it’s important. I have something to donate.”

  “Are you from an organization?”

  “No, I’m…a private collector.” I liked it as soon as I said it. A private collector. It made me sound worldly and learned, like someone who’d just hopped off a private plane from a dig in Egypt. I was glad I was wearing a suit.

  “Your name?”

  “Billy Rendall.”

  “Will you wait a moment?” She gestured to two chairs upholstered in tan brocade.

  “Certainly.” I didn’t usually say “certainly,” but it seemed a word that a private collector would certainly use.

  A few minutes later, the receptionist was back with a small, balding man, wearing round copper glasses and an ill-fitting pinstripe suit. “Ms. Rendall,” he said, shaking my hand. “I’m Charles Topper, an assistant curator here. Will you follow me?”

  In his office, which, strangely, lacked art or decoration, Charles Topper got right to business. “What can I do for you?” he said, when he’d taken his chair behind his desk.

  I squirmed to sit higher in the leather chair. Now that I was here, how to say this? “I believe I have something to donate to the Institute. I believe it dates back to the Shang dynasty.”

  Mr. Topper’s eyes grew large. “Is that right? Well, that’s fantastic. May I ask how you acquired this piece?”

  “It was a gift.”

  “And can you describe it for me?”

  “It looks like a piece you already have. The frog on the lily pad?”

  His eyes grew narrow now and his mouth pursed. “You’re speaking of the Shang dynasty frog, which was part of a pair.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I can’t be sure that I have the exact one, but it closely resembles it. And I have no use for it anymore.” I said this last part breezily, as if I was accustomed to donating artifacts to museums around the world. “I’d like to give it to the Institute. If the piece is of interest to you, it’s yours. And if n
ot, you can get rid of it.” I hoped that there was a massive incinerator employed for such a purpose.

  “Ms. Rendall,” Mr. Topper said, taking off his glasses and pressing his thumb into the center of his forehead. “I should tell you that there is quite a legend surrounding that pair of frogs, or at least one of them. Something like the Hope Diamond.”

  “You mean where everyone who had the diamond was killed or cursed?” I felt a sweat break over my body.

  “Well, yes, that’s the lore associated with the diamond, but in this case, with the Shang frogs, it’s something more mystical. You see, the Art Institute has had the one frog for over a hundred years. But you’re not the first person who’s tried to give us the other half of the pair. The fact is, ah…How should I express this?” He put his glasses back on. “We can’t seem to hold on to the other frog once it’s been given to us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s rather embarrassing, but it just disappears. The Institute reported it as a theft the first few times. Now…well, we’re not sure what to do anymore.”

  “But you’d be interested in looking at my frog, wouldn’t you? I mean, it might be a different frog. Or maybe you can hold on to it this time.” I held back from saying, Please. Please take this thing off my hands.

  He scratched his head. “There’s a whole protocol that has to be followed with such a donation. You’d first have to fill out the paperwork-”

  “You know what?” I said, interrupting him. “Let me just pop home and get the frog to show you. If it seems like you might be interested we can take it from there, okay?”

  Before he could answer, I was out the door. I hailed a cab home and told the cab driver to wait. Inside my condo, I snatched the frog, holding it tight in my fist. I ran back to the cab and asked him to take me back to the Institute.

  “Hmm,” Mr. Topper said, when I’d placed it on his desk. “You should know I’m not a spotter.”

  “A spotter?”

  “Someone who can authenticate these things. But this certainly looks like the other one.” He shook his head. “Remarkable.”

  “So, you’ll take it?”

  “We’ll try.” He smiled. “I’ll get the paperwork.”

  The next morning, it was back on my nightstand.

  I became desperate. If this was some kind of cosmic test, I was determined to pass. If I could simply destroy the frog for good, I was certain I’d be back to square one, back where I’d started that night I’d seen Blinda weeks before. I could erase everything that had happened and begin again. This time I would do it right. I would try to take Blinda’s advice and look inside for my happiness, but I would also work to get those things I wanted. I would actually address them. Someone once said that life was not a spectator sport. Unfortunately I’d been sitting on the sidelines lately-way, way back in the bleachers.

  Soon, I could think of little else but obliterating the frog. I began watching TV for particularly heinous serial killer stories, hoping for some tips. I took to carrying the frog around with me during the day, looking for that perfect, destructive opportunity.

  On Sunday afternoon, I rode the train to Armitage Avenue and walked the street, heading for Lori’s, my favorite shoe store, thinking that since I couldn’t see my therapist, maybe a little shoe therapy would help. Right before I reached the store, I passed a church. One of the doors was open, letting in the cool May air, and I could see a memorial service inside. There was an open casket at the front, mourners lined up to pay their respects.

  I had a thought.

  But then a war in my head. Don’t do it. Don’t even think about it, the sane side said. This might work, my crazy side retorted. This might actually do it.

  Without thinking about it more, I joined the line shuffling to the casket in the front. There were approximately sixty people in the church, most of them murmuring quietly to their neighbor while organ music played in the back. As I reached the casket, I saw a man inside. Either the mortician was not particularly gifted, or this man had been very, very old. His face was as white as the little tufts of hair on his bald head, but there was a serene smile on his face. I panicked. This wasn’t some game. This was a funeral for a very real person, an obviously much better person than me. Guilt twisted my insides. I was a terrible person to intrude.

  I shuffled to the left-I had to get out-but then I felt soft pressure on my arm. The priest.

  He nodded at me. “It’s okay. We all get scared sometimes. Just pay your respects.”

  “No. I…I don’t…I can’t. I didn’t even-”

  He nodded again. “It’s okay.” His hand propelled me toward the casket.

  “No, I…” But I saw a few people glancing at me, worried expressions on their faces. This was horrible, disrespectful. But protesting further would only create more of a stir.

  I took the few steps to the casket and touched the rim with one hand. For some reason, tears sprang to my eyes. “I’m sorry,” I whispered to the man. He looked like someone’s kind grandpa, the type I’d always wanted to have.

  The frog was still in my left hand. I had a thought-What could it hurt? More wars in my head. More wavering. I heard the people behind me shuffling their feet impatiently. The organist began another song.

  Finally, without thinking about it anymore, I brought my left hand to the casket and dropped the frog inside. It slid down the side of the casket, invisible in the folds of ivory satin.

  The next morning, it was back on my nightstand.

  Spring in Chicago can mean fifteen inches of snow or an eighty-degree scorcher. But one Monday, with the end of May quickly approaching, the city hit on the most perfect of spring weather-a balmy breeze, and puffy white clouds dotting a powder blue sky. I’d spent the weekend trying with more and more ferocity to kill the frog, but it was apparently the Terminator of icons, because it would not die. Luckily, Chris had stayed with his parents on Saturday night after a family birthday party, one I’d managed to avoid. I had been nothing but cranky and miserable, and yet when he was around, Chris kept offering food and conversation and love. I wanted that love. More than anything. But it was hard to accept it when I felt that I’d wished it into action, rather than Chris having desired it on his own.

  Now, on Monday, I walked back from lunch with two of my clients. I’d told them that I had an appointment on Franklin Street, so I could accompany them to their office. Really, I had no such appointment, and I’d gone totally out of my way, since my office was blocks away, but this was something my first boss had taught me to do; spend as much time with the client as possible, time other people don’t. I’d gotten in the habit, and now it was my routine. But I also loved the client contact, which I got so little of these days, and then there was also the small fact that by avoiding the office, I was avoiding Evan and his unconditional lust.

  As we walked, I smiled and laughed at the appropriate times. I gossiped a little about a crisis I’d heard about at another PR firm. I was putting on a good show. Really, I was thinking about the goddamned, fucking frog. It was in my black suede saddle bag, tucked inside the zippered pocket. I could feel it there, pulsing, sending out waves, telling me that I had no control over my life, that there was no free will, that it was all preordained, at least for me. I would always be able to have whatever I wanted, and I would never be happy with it.

  Right then, we passed the Sears Tower. “Geez,” said Teresa, one of the clients. “I haven’t been up there in a while.” She glanced up, holding her long brown hair back from her face as the wind picked up and barreled down the street.

  We all craned our necks, staring up at the black mirrored building that towered over us like a mountain. A piece of white cloth, possibly an old T-shirt, sailed into our field of view and landed near our feet.

  “Where did that come from?” I said.

  “It’s like someone dropped it,” Teresa said. We all looked up again.

  “Can you imagine falling from there?” said the other client. “Nothin
g could survive that.”

  I stood, still looking up. Teresa and John began walking again, then halted a few feet ahead. “Coming, Billy?” John said.

  I managed to drag my gaze away. “I’m going to…um, I’m going to run a few errands, so I’ll leave you here.”

  I shook their hands, and managed to make suitable farewell comments, yet the whole time, the frog was calling louder. Time for you to go, I thought. For good.

  I waited a second, watching their backs as they walked away. Then I walked to the door that said, “Sears Tower Observation Deck.”

  Hours later, I climbed down one hundred and ten floors from the top of the Sears Tower, still shaking violently from the force of the wind and the thought that the frog might really be gone now. When I got outside, a dusky twilight had settled into the Loop. Most people were already on their way home, but a few stragglers walked the streets, a couple of lone cabs circled with roof lights blazing.

  I hailed one of them and whispered my address. The experience on the roof had taken the power from my body. I was exhausted.

  When I got home, I was relieved to see that Chris wasn’t there. I stripped away my clothes. I turned off all the lights and crawled in bed, pulling the covers over my head.

  When I woke up early, the first rays of sun were pushing through the curtains I’d forgotten to close. I looked first at Chris, asleep with his dark lashes lying against his pale cheeks. I took a breath and rolled over.

  And there was the frog.

  I began to cry softly. I couldn’t get rid of it. Nothing would ever change.

  chapter twelve

  “Y our mother was a voodoo priestess, right?” I asked Odette.

  She glanced up from the proposal I’d given her, her almond-shaped eyes amused. “What kind of transition is that? I thought we were talking about my press release.”

  I laughed. “Sorry.”

  We were in the basement office of her restaurant, having one of our routine evening meetings. Well, they used to be routine until I became a VP. Now I’d had to make excuses to attend this meeting, instead of the account rep. When I’d waitressed in college, the main office there was a pitiful place with rotting walls and mice droppings. Odette’s office, in sharp contrast, was a vibrant space with brightly colored wall hangings, a wood desk painted yellow and a comfy blue visitor’s chair.