Frog

11. Frog Acts

In bed, must be late, no car traffic outside, light coming in, been asleep, up, asleep again, hears a noise in the apartment. He’s on his side, front to his wife’s back, both no clothes, hand on her thigh. Kids in the bedrooms down the hall. Light noise again. Could be the cat. Whispers “Denise, you hear anything? Denise?” Doesn’t say anything, still asleep. He’s quiet, holds his breath, listens. Nothing. Lets out his breath, holds it again. Sound of feet. Something. Moving slowly, sliding almost. Sliding, that’s the sound. Could be the cat doing something unusual. Slight floorboard squeak. Cat’s made that too. Should get up. Scared. Cold feeling in his stomach, on his face. Has to do something, what, scream? If it’s someone then that person might get excited, frightened, start shooting, let’s say, knifing. He could be in one of the kids’ rooms, at one of their doors. Gets on his back, holds his breath. No sound. Lets it out, holds it. Shuffling. Sure of it. Down the hall’s wood floor, just a few inches. Shuffling stops, as if he picked up Howard listening. Now he doesn’t want to tell Denise. She might jump, afraid, scream, panic, man could then panic, start shooting, knifing, clubbing, something, if there is anyone there. Should get out there to see. If it’s someone, face him, but with a stick, knife, something, though without saying anything to Denise. For now let her sleep. Man sees her he might quickly shoot or knife him, feeling outnumbered, one to grab him, other to phone the police. Or just keep the gun or knife on her while he rapes her and Howard does nothing, stands there, saying to himself “Fuck it, I’ll kill him, kill him,” kids watching too. Better to surprise him, and not have Denise spoil that surprise, and try to get him out or down. If someone’s there. Concentrates on his ears, holds his breath. Nothing. Holds his breath. Nothing. Holds. Something. Shuffling. Inches. Even the sound of breathing. Almost positive. Light breath, as if trying to contain it, now no more. Lets his breath out. Stomach cold, neck sweaty, face cold, feels queasy, weak. But can’t be weak. Must think of something. Where could the man be if he’s here? Can’t tell exactly by the sounds. Somewhere in the hall. Near one of the doors? The cat? Cats don’t make that shuffling sound. Wind. Doesn’t seem possible. All the windows are closed. Did it when he made the rounds before he went to bed. Maybe he forgot a window, upper or lower part, or didn’t close one all the way. What else could it be but that? Wind blowing a paper down the hall floor. Could be. Cats can get frisky when they’re asleep. Should find out. Has to. But must be ready to come upon someone, do something, shout, kick, jump at him, hit him with something, take a wound or blow but still try to disarm him and get him down. For he’s in good shape and always was strong and as a kid a fierce fighter, so might be able to knock even a fairly big man down. Could probably knock most men down if he surprises them or in a fair fight. If he gets him down or wrestles the weapon away, if there’s one, then what? Then hit him hard. In the face. Kick him in the face, in the balls, pick up his head and bat it against the floor. Hit him with the gun butt if necessary. Just hit him in the head with it or anything around as hard as he can, several times, lots, but make sure the gun, if there’s one, doesn’t go off. Knows little about them. Just pull the trigger with the barrel aimed at him even, for what’s to know? Gun’s cocked, uncock it, pull the trigger, gun goes off. If it’s not cocked, just shoot. No bullets in the gun, bang the butt against the man’s head. Do it, if it comes to it, if the man keeps coming, if there’s a man, a gun. If it’s a knife and he gets it away and the man keeps coming, same thing, stick it in him. Or just hold one or the other to him and say “Don’t move or I’ll shoot; Don’t move or 111 stick it in you, right through you if I have to.” And have Denise call the police. If she’s screaming, shout for her to immediately shut up. Yell out the window for help and at the top of his lungs for his neighbors to come. Break the window even to yell out of it. Noise will attract some; shouting, others. Ones right above are old, very, couldn’t help, might not even hear. One below, new one with his wife, he’d come and help. He might even kick the man’s face in and maybe shoot him, if they grabbed the man and told him not to move and he did. Something about him. Makes him think he even has his own gun. An accountant, moved here from a large home, kids in college, but he’s a tough guy, he’s talked tough and half of it against crime, what partly made them sell their house and move here: burglaries, couple of neighborhood rapes. But get out of bed now. Slowly, quietly. Find something to swing with. Best move. Be senseless not to. If the man has no weapon, he’d have the advantage. If there is a man there. Holds his breath. Nothing. Holds. Moving. Shuffling. Touching, something with his body. The wall, a door, and more creaking. That’s it. Up.

Gets out of bed, his underpants off the floor and puts them on. In case he has to run into the public hallway or the street. Anyway, they’re briefs and he’ll be less vulnerable down there and also look stronger in them than with none on and everything hanging. A consideration. Might mean nothing. But he’s big chested, narrow waisted, in the mirror he can look powerful. Looks around, room dark, little streetlight through the shade cracks is all. Denise asleep. He has nothing. Lamp? Won’t do. Too big, won’t swing. Then what? What’s he have? VCR, TV, two of the same kind of lamps, night tables, rocking chair, Denise’s typewriter on her desk, clamp lamp above it, would collapse on impact, framed photos and prints on the wall, dresser, drawers, clothes, shoes in the closet and under the bed, maybe her boots. Couldn’t get a good grip on the leather tops. Night table, a foldup, on her side, probably lots of little things on it next to the lamp and books. Grab it by the legs and just rush the man. Or fold it up and wield it like a sledgehammer. Light enough to and in an open space he could really swing it. Goes around the bed, gets on the floor and unplugs the lamp, takes it off the table and sets it on the floor. Denise stirs. He stops. She lifts her head, turns it to him. He bends down to her ear, puts his hand over her mouth. “Shh,” he whispers. “Don’t speak. I think we’re being robbed. Almost sure of it. I’ll handle it, shh.” She takes his hand away. “What are you doing?” she whispers. “Shh, shh. I’m going to use the table on him. Just in case. Don’t worry.” “Don’t,” she says; “wait; let me think.” “The kids. No time. I have to. It’ll be OK. Get up quietly and stand by the phone. Don’t pick it up. Then when I say to, call the police. Shh. No other words. No questions.” He puts the books on the floor. She gets off the other side of the bed. He brushes the things off the table into his hand. Earstuds, paperclip, pencil, spool of thread but no needle in it, feels around, no needle on the table, used tissues, face cream, sea shells, what feel like nail clippings, puts them on the bed. She’s by the phone on the VCR. For a few seconds her hands over her face. “Shh, don’t cry or let on you’re here,” he whispers; “important.” Picks up the table by its legs, takes a deep breath but not to hear, lets it out and yells “I’m coming, you bastard — Call, call now,” he whispers; “911, but quietly — You better get the hell out the way you came in and quick. Now out, get, out.” Hears movement, feet going, running. ‘There’s someone.” “Police,” she says low, “we need help. A burglar in our apartment.” Gives the address, name, phone and apartment numbers. Both kids screaming. “Stay away, you fucker,” and runs down the hall holding the table straight out in front of him. Man’s not there. “You OK? It’s Daddy,” to Olivia. Her room’s dark but she’s nodding, now crying. Man’s not in the bathroom. Goes into Eva’s room at the end of the hall. She’s standing in her crib screaming. Goes into the hall leading to the living room, feels the front door. Still locked and chained. Looks through the hall door into the kitchen. Nobody seems to be there. Walks down the hall to the living room, table in front of him. “I’m coming. I can kill you. I have a gun.” “Don’t say that,” Denise says from somewhere in back. “You came through the kitchen, get out that way.” The man runs from the living room into the dining room, then into the kitchen. Howard follows slowly. “Get out, get out.” Can’t see his face. Just a silhouette of him. Tall, thin, bald or hair cut close or skull shaved or wearing a stocking over his face. Running sound as if he has sneakers on. Tries to open the kitchen door to the fire escape. Why’d he shut it? Must have been the way he came in. It was locked when they went to bed. Must have shut it so the wind wouldn’t wake them, wind or cold. Something. Door can get stuck. He’s trying to pull it open. “Fucking-ass door. What’s with it? Fuck you then,” turning to Howard at the dining room door. “I’ll kill you first if you come for me.” “Just go and no killing,” keeping the table straight out. “Fuck you, man, you haven’t got nothing but that fucking board. Probably cardboard. Now back up. I’ve got a knife bigger than you.” Howard backs up, table still in front of him. The man holds the knife out and starts to him. “Listen, just go out through the door over there on your right and we’ll forget it.” “Yeah, why?” “Just unlock and unchain it, that’s all, and leave. You’ve time.” “Give me all your money and I’ll go. I’m not going without your money. Get your fucking wife to get it, and fast.” “There’s nobody else here.” “You crazy?” “Just my little kid; that’s who you heard.” Still coming. What to do? Backs up. “Police are on the way. I set off an alarm second I heard you. I’ve been robbed here before. I know what to do.” “Sure. And you got an alarm, you got money. Come on. Wasting my time. Fast.” Anything to throw at him? Shout and he might leap at him with the knife. Fingers the table behind him for something to throw. Maybe the bottle of wine if they didn’t put it away. Little silver wine holder; too light. Salt and pepper shakers, kid’s boardbook, place settings, baby’s spoon. Guy’s too close. If he darts either way to get away the knife could reach him. Lunge at him with the table, then drop it if it doesn’t knock the knife away and run into the living room. Throws the table at him, runs, knife slashes his shoulder, nicks his arm. In the living room he remembers the stick to hold the window up lying on the sill. Grabs it. Blood all over the place but so what? Man’s in the living room. No pain, isn’t weak, cuts don’t seem deep. Swings the stick back and forth, blood spattering the window and walls, and says “Fuck it, now I’ve had it. Get out—111 bust your goddamn head in,” and runs to the fireplace and grabs the wood Japanese statue off of it and swings both in front of him. “Bullshit, you can’t do anything. Get your money — come on.” “Help, police, someone, a burglar here, a killer,” he shouts and then knocks things off the shelves with the statue and stick to wake Gil downstairs, get him here. Runs to the floor lamp behind the armchair and turns it on. Denise is screaming in back, kids screaming. For a few seconds he can’t see anything. Man’s rubbing his eyes too. Young man. Shaved skull. No stocking. Late teens, maybe twenty. Long tight upperarms, enormous hands. Black nylon undershirt. Bright celestial design-circles in circles — in the middle of it. Big teeth and awful face. Taller than he thought. Six-one, — two. Knife out. Long enough to go through him. Like a hunting kinfe. A survival knife he thinks he’s seen it advertised as. “You dumb prick,” the man says. “Get the kids in a room, Denise, and lock the door,” he shouts behind the chair. “Get it closed. Any room. The bathroom. It has a lock, you hear? Do you hear?” “Yes,” she yells. “What’re they doing?” the man says, looking down the front hall. “Are you locked in?” Howard shouts. “Just about,” she says. Man rushes down the hall. Howard runs after him with the statue and stick. Door slams, locking sound. “Take what you want now,” Howard says to his back and runs into the kitchen, drops the statue into the sink, kicks the bottom of the door, pulls the door loose, gets on the fire escape and down the ladder and drops to the ground.

Runs to the sidewalk screaming “Help, police, murderer in our apartment, 35 Ribeka, second floor.” Was that good to do? Denise. Man might break the bathroom lock. Runs around the building and rings all the tenants’ bells. “What?” someone says. “Yes?” “Hello?” “Who’s there?” others say. “Not all at once,” he says. “It’s Howard Tetch. There’s a murderer in my apartment and my family’s there. I just got out through the fire escape but they’re in the bathroom. My wife and kids. Ring me in.” Lots of buzzing. One person says “Oh Lord” over the intercom. He goes in, runs back to the door, holds it open with his foot, stretches over and rings all the bells. “Yes?” “What is it?” “Who’s there?” “Does anyone have a gun? If you do, could you bring it to me at my door or just by the staircase?” No answer. “If you do have one, loaded — please.” Runs upstairs, down the hall, bangs on his door. “I’m coming in with the cops, you bastard, so you better get the hell out. The door to the fire escape’s open. Denise, you all right?” Doesn’t hear anything. Thinks he hears something. “Yell if you’re all right, Denise.” “Yes, OK,” she yells. “Stay there.” Runs back down the hall, into the short alcove that has a door at the end of it opening onto the fire escape. Opens it, gets on the escape, man doesn’t seem to have left, not a person on the sidewalk. Goes into the apartment, gets the big cutting knife out of the drawer, bottle of ammonia under the sink, fills up a water glass with it, walks into the front hall. Man’s not there. Holds his breath. Can’t hear him, maybe because Olivia’s still crying. Maybe he did leave. “I advise you to get out now, fella. You have my permission. Go through the front door,” unchaining and unlocking it and throwing it open, “or the outside kitchen door. That’s open now too.” The two women in the apartment across the hall look at him through their half-opened door. “What’s wrong?” one of them says. “You’re bleeding something awful.” “Call the police. Burglar with a knife might still be inside. If he comes out — you hear this, burglar? If you come out, I’m telling my neighbors across the hall, they should let you go. Don’t even try to stop him or even scream,” he shouts to the women. “I’m stepping back now, burglar. I mean I’m going to the middle of the front hall but against the wall without the door. The front hall’s the one by the opened front door. If you’re in the living room, go out through the dining room into the kitchen or just go past me through the front door or just any way you want to go. Through the dining room into the kitchen and then out the kitchen door to the front door in the front hall. Or you want me to go into any other room but the bathroom when you leave, say so. But you better do it fast. The police have to be here soon. But if you try anything funny before you leave, I’ve a glass of ammonia I’m holding that I’ll throw in your eyes and several knives and something to chop off your head too. Do you hear? You going or not?” “I hear,” from the back hall or one of the kids’ rooms. “It sounds like a trap.” “It isn’t. Just go. I won’t stop you. You can understand why. I just want you out.” “I don’t know.” “Through the kitchen door and down the fire escape’s the best and quickest way. I did it myself just before to get out. It’s easy.” Listens. Nothing. No sound from the bathroom too. “I have that door wide open now. I came back through the building’s hallway onto the fire escape. You can even go out that way if you want and down the stairs and out the building’s front door. But you’ll probably have a better chance of escaping through the kitchen door to the fire escape and down the ladder. It’s still dark out there; nobody will see you. Anyway, you better be going.” “OK, I’m going. Out the kitchen door. Step into the fucking living room.” “Anything you say.” “No tricks. You die before you pull something on me.” “Don’t worry, none. I just want you gone.” Man runs into the kitchen and out the kitchen door. Howard goes into the kitchen, sees him hanging from the ladder about to drop, goes on the fire escape and says “I hope you break your fucking leg, you bastard. Break it. Drop, you bastard, fucker, sonofabitch,” and leans over and spills the ammonia on his head. The man screams. Howard goes into the kitchen to get the rest of the ammonia but when he gets to the fire escape the man’s gone. “Thief on the street, tall guy,” he shouts. “Shaved skull, black T-shirt with no sleeves — an undershirt, sneakers. Thief, broke into our apartment, has a big knife.” Denise comes into the kitchen carrying Eva and her arm around Olivia. “Good God, your arm.” “All over. Something not to be believed, right?” and shuts and locks the door. “You have to take care of that. Is it deep?” “Two places. Not deep. Got it with his knife. One’s already stopped.” “Daddy’s bleeding,” Olivia says. “It’s not so bad, sweetie,” and washes the arm down with a wet dishtowel and holds a bunch of paper towels to his shoulder. Knock on the door. He starts. “Is it OK now?” one of the two women says. Beverly or Rhonda. Can never get their names straight, when he remembers their names. “There really was a burglar here?” she says, both coming into the kitchen. “Excuse me,” turning away, the other going back out. “Let me get a bathrobe on,” he says and kisses Denise, Olivia, top of Eva’s head, says to the other woman in the front hall “Go back in there; I’ll be right out,” goes into the bathroom, washes the blood off the rest of his body, puts antiseptic on the cuts, gets his bathrobe on, the handkerchief out of the bathrobe pocket and holds it to the shoulder cut, goes to the kitchen. “Have you seen the cat?” he says to the three women. “She might have got out.” “In our closet,” Denise says. “She was as scared as the rest of us.” “That sonofabitch,” he says. “I thought we were done for, all of us,” and closes his eyes, feels like crying but doesn’t want to scare the kids more than they’ve been so holds back. “We called the police,” Beverly or Rhonda says. “Thank you.” Bell rings from downstairs. “That must be them,” one of the women and Denise say at the same time. He presses the intercom’s talk button and says “Yes, police?” “It’s me, you fag. I know where you are. I’ll get you for burning me. We had a deal. I’ll get you good. Knife in your heart when you’re not looking. When you’re in bed or walking on the street.” “Try it,” he shouts, “just try it. I’ll be armed from now on. No bullshit, I’m not kidding, so try it. I’ll kill you first.” Presses the listen button. No answer. Presses the talk button. “Did you hear me, killer? I said did you hear me? Just try your shit with me and you’re dead.” “Forget it,” Denise says. “Really, he’s probably gone. Just shut the door and I’ll get the girls back in bed.” He shuts the front door. “Need any help?” Beverly or Rhonda says to Denise. “No thanks, you’ve been very helpful as it is.” “You know, this same thing happened this summer in this building.” Denise shakes her head, indicates with her eyes the kids. She takes them to their rooms and the woman says to Howard “It did, almost the same thing. We didn’t tell you. We forgot. When you were away. To the people who moved into F-5. But after it happened, moved out the next week. He took their money and jewelry and some other things and threatened to hurt them but didn’t. I forget what they said he looked like except he was white. Do you remember, Ron?” “Not exactly. He wasn’t so young, that I remember. Forty, they said, closer to fifty, and very dirty looking. They were surprised he was still hoisting himself up to fire escapes at that age.” “Mine was much younger and actually pretty clean looking, and black. It’s terrible, though, whenever it happens.” “Fortunately, nobody got too hurt.” Beverly grabs Rhonda’s arm, says “That’s enough chatter if we want to let Howard get back to sleep,” and he sees them to the door. He goes to the back hall. Eva’s already asleep. Olivia’s room is dark, Denise is humming a tune to her, when he hears a siren. Siren stops, he sees flashing through the living room window, must be the light on top of the car. Then more sirens, cars, flashing, doors slamming, two-way radio and talk and static, voices in the street. He goes downstairs to meet them. Doesn’t want them ringing the downstairs bell, which is loud, or even coming up, as they might wake up the kids and scare them. But he’s sure they’ll want to see things and make a report.

He gives a description of the man. “Most victims don’t catch half as much as that,” a policeman says. “But by now he’s probably thrown away that shirt and has his jacket, hat and a pair of fake eyeglasses on.” They look around the apartment. “He’ll probably never show up again, but you never know. Usually those big revenge threats are baseless and if they don’t get any of your I.D.s, they hardly remember what neighborhood you live in. But your place is very vulnerable, so I’d get a few crossbars installed over the kitchen door and possibly even a much stronger door with thick plastic windows in it instead of glass. Door you have a foot could push in with one kick.” They go. He washes and dresses his cuts, cleans up the apartment, puts the kids’ place mats and the rest of their little silverware and Eva’s table seat on the table to get a head start in the morning, makes himself a vodka and grapefruit juice, drinks it down, makes another but after the first sip sticks it in the freezer for one of tomorrow’s predinner drinks. One made him more than enough relaxed. But maybe he shouldn’t get so relaxed. Maybe the guy will come back tonight, thinking it’s the time he’d least expect him to. Doubts it. He’ll think police will be cruising around. Goes into the bedroom with the stick. Lights are off, shades up, Denise in bed. “Are you asleep?” “How can I be? And watch out for the phone cord on the floor. I’ll probably be up all night.” Phone’s by her side of the bed on the floor, far as the cord can go. “I’ll probably be up all night myself,” he says. “No, sleep, I’ll stay awake and tell you if I hear anything.” “No no, you sleep.” He lies down on his back on top of the covers, yawns, feels sleepy, gets up, takes off his bathrobe, gets under the covers, stick by his hand at the edge of the bed. Should he get a jarful of ammonia? No, just the smell of it, even with the cap tight, might keep her up. “You still up?” “Yes; I told you. How’s your arm?” “Fine. I took care of it. They won’t — he won’t — I don’t know why I said they — come back tonight. Tomorrow 111 get a locksmith and see about getting a new lock for the kitchen door.” “Call the landlord and tell him what happened. Ask him for a new door and a couple of better locks for it. No more hook and latch and skeleton key. We want real burglar-preventive locks — even an alarm on the door to go off, if someone tries. We pay enough rent.” “Tomorrow I’ll do that.” “You don’t, I will.” “I will; I said so. Now you go to sleep. It’s silly for both of us to stay up.” “You went through enough; I’ll stay up.” “You didn’t go through enough?” “I did, but you did more. What you did — I can’t believe it. Not that you haven’t done something like that before. But I don’t think it ever got so bad where you were cut like that and faced the man so close.” “Oh no, my head — remember?” “That’s right. The intruder, at school.” “And that time — hey, I just remembered something. Gil never came upstairs when I knocked everything to the floor to get him to come. Broke some very nice things too. I’m sorry. The bell jar and both figurines, did you notice?” “Too bad. It doesn’t matter though. You didn’t throw them away, did you?” “Yes; in the garbage. They were in pieces.” “I’ll get them out tomorrow. And Gil and Jane are away for a few days, that’s why.” “If he wasn’t I’m sure he would have come when I yelled and banged. But that time when I stood on the sidewalk and acted like a total misfit to some guy who had a gun on two men. In a vestibule. Where the mailboxes are. On my street. A gun. But I thought I knew what kind it was. A.45. You don’t want to hear this again.” “It’s been a long time since you told me it.” “It looked like a.45. At least I’d seen pictures of the gun — movies, newspapers, comics as a kid. Like a big black try square. And someone who knew, he’d been an M.P. in the army, had told me it couldn’t shoot straight more than fifteen feet and the guy in the vestibule was about twenty-five feet away and down a few steps. Somehow I also didn’t believe he’d shoot at me. He was a big chubby fellow, with a nice fat face. Shirt out under his jacket — a real shlub. Looked like my cousin Nat.” “Still, it was something to do. You saved those men from God knows what.” “He wanted them to take him up to their apartment. Rape, robbery, even worse — they didn’t know and he wouldn’t say. I just kept acting like an idiot out there, jumping up and down on one foot, hooting, cackling, blubbering with my finger over my lips, looking at the sky in great wonder and then down at my feet as if I were searching for something every time he turned to look at me. It worked. He came out, his back to the men facing me with their arms still raised, put the gun under his belt, looked at me as if he could squash me with that look and very casually walked down the street. I ducked behind a parked car.” “And later ran up the block—” “Right. Immediately. The police call box didn’t work. Nor the fire one attached to it. I wanted Fire to call the police to grab this guy whom I could still see walking down the street. And then the fellow who broke into my apartment. When we were just going together. Same thing as tonight’s, just about. Two or three a.m. Maybe later. I heard him, just as I did this one—” “How long had you heard him?” “Which one?” “This one.” “Minutes. I didn’t know what it was. Thought it could be Kitty or the wind.” “I’m glad you heard him. I was sound asleep. Who knows what he would have done if he’d surprised us.” “That’s what I thought. And after being up against the guy…” “But what happened then — years ago?” “You don’t remember?” “Just tell me.” “It’ll keep you up. Go to sleep, really.” “No, tell me.” “You know I don’t like telling a story if I know the person heard it or knows it fairly well.” “Tell.” “I didn’t know what to do. I just lay in bed — sat up, rather — thinking Lamp? Watch? What could I throw at him, defend myself with?’ I had nothing, just like tonight. Then — it was pitch black but maybe my eyes were adjusting to it — he moved his head slowly past the bedroom door frame, looking in. He had a stocking over it, just as I thought this one might, and he must have been six-six from where his head was behind the door. I measured it right after and it scared the hell out of me he was so big. But I did something that just came out of me — I actually didn’t think. I made the sound of a ghost. First very low — ohhhh — and then louder and higher till I became a screaming ghost, but the same long oh without break from start to finish. He ran right out through the kitchen window he’d come in and onto the roof. And then, I suppose, along the other roofs till he got himself down someplace, while I yelled outside ‘Thief on the roofs, close your windows; thief along the roofs of the 200 block of West Twenty-eighth,’ and maybe even that it was the odd-numbered side of the 200 block, and then locked my window. I slept with a bat, wish I had that bat now, but a bat I bought the next day — slept with it for three months. Held it while I slept sometimes. You remember — even when you were with me.” “You put it on the floor then.” “I did, I didn’t, I don’t remember — maybe only when we made love. I’ll probably sleep with this stick for three months. Or a bat. I should buy a bat. Or a gun. Should I get a gun?” “What?” “Of course not, but I bet I’d be able to get a license for one now.” “What about that time, though, you grabbed a gun from a man’s hand when he pointed it at a hot dog vendor, and he even shot him, didn’t he?” “It was a fake gun — wood, painted silver, maybe his kid’s — but I didn’t know it. Fact is, and this is probably the shot I told you about, when I was struggling to keep his arm up I could have sworn I heard the gun go off in my ear. Could have been a car backfire or construction work explosion nearby, but neither would have been that loud. Anyway, my ears rang for a day — it’s ridiculous. The guy who did it claimed the hot dog man had put ground glass in the mustard, so he pulled out the gun. That’s the story the vendor told later. I saw the gun, and again, I don’t know where it came from in me, but I went up behind him — it was in broad daylight, a busy street. Or the park — I forget, but lots of people around — Grand Army Plaza, that’s where, if that’s what it’s called — opposite the Plaza Hotel. After the police took the guy away, the hot dog man offered me free franks with everything on them and any other time when I saw him selling franks in the street. It was all so crazy.” “Did you have any?” “I don’t remember. Probably not. I hate those things, all pork ears and snouts, and who knows where those vendors piss outside, or wash their hands after, or with what.” “What about the robbery you stopped in a supermarket?” “Come on, enough.” “Just that one. I forget it completely, except for the razors.” “Razorstrops. Who knows where they got them from. Five boys, none older than thirteen it seemed, and they ran and slapped those strops against the checkout counters and demanded all the money and food stamps from the checkers. I was waiting on line with my cart and yelled ‘Get out of here, you brats,’ and they swung the strops at me and hissed and things like that, but from ten and more feet away, and then ran out. I don’t know what I would have defended myself with if they had attacked. Bread. Can of frozen concentrated grapefruit juice.” “Those dividers they have on the counters. Were there other times?” “A couple. Maybe more. Let’s forget them. I am tired.” “The doors are all locked as well as they can be?” “Roger.” “Let me check the girls again.” “I’ll do it.”

Gets out of bed, thinks of taking the stick, leaves it. Goes into Olivia’s room. Covers are on her, she’s alseep, kisses her, strokes her head. Eva’s room. Asleep, covers off, puts her back on her stomach, covers over her, reaches down to kiss her. Mattress position in the crib so deep his lips can’t reach her, so he strokes her head, leaves his hand on her forehead. Goes through the apartment. Everything OK. Jumps when the cat walks into the living room, cat runs away. Goes back to bed, under the covers, holds the stick. “Denise?” No sound. Holds his breath. She’s breathing lightly, on her side, back to him. Lets go of the stick and snuggles up to her. She’s wearing a bathrobe. Pulls it above her waist, nothing on underneath, sticks his penis between her thighs and leaves it there. Doesn’t want to bother her. Really doesn’t. If he gets an erection he won’t do anything like press even closer to her, wiggle around a bit to show he’s interested in making love if she is. Kisses her shoulder through the robe, her neck. “Do you want me to get up and put the thing in?” she says. “I’m sorry. No. I thought you were asleep. I didn’t kiss you for that. Just as a good-night.” “Oh?” “No, really.” “It might get rid of some of your tension.” “And yours, but better we just sleep. We haven’t got many hours left and the kids might get up again tonight.” “I don’t mind if you don’t. If I stop being involved in it it’ll only be because I’m too sleepy or still too nervous or something of before all of a sudden came back to me and took my mind off it, but you just go ahead.” “Same here then. OK.” “OK I should get up?” “Sure, if you really don’t mind and it’s not too much trouble. But I don’t want you to think I needed all that fighting and violence to incite it. I’m perfectly happy to go to sleep now holding you like this.” “How about if I put it in just in case?” and she gets out of bed and goes to the dresser.