Frog

2. Frog Remembers

He was once somewhere. On a rooftop. Looking out. He saw many mountains and sky. He saw lots of things. What else? Birds. Sunrise. Low-hanging clouds. That’s not where he was. He was home. In bed. That’s where he is. Now. Thinking of the time. Now he has it. Time when he first met her. Where was that? When? No rooftop or mountains, birds or sunrise. From where he met her. One of the windows out of. Oh, he supposes they could have seen some of those if they’d looked out the window — not mountains or sunrise — and maybe one to more of them did. But where was he? There were several people there. He had it before. Suddenly the thought disappeared. The memory of it. Here once, now gone. It’ll come back. Always has. No it doesn’t, or not necessarily. This is the first time, in fact, he’s thought of this particular memory since it happened. Can’t be true. Must have thought of it a couple of times soon after it happened. At least once. Had to. Then several to many times when they were together all those years. Then after they split up and certainly while they were splitting up. But the first time for a long time. Now that’s true. A fact. At least he thinks it is. That it’s true. Anyway—

Anyway, she was somewhere, he was somewhere. They met, somehow met. They immediately took to one another, or almost immediately. That’s what they both later said. Said a number of weeks later. Three to be exact. Three on the nose. They met on a Saturday night. Now he’s got it. And three Saturday nights later — and he knows it was three. Because they often said to one another, starting from that night. Maybe not often but almost. That good things come in threes. And it’s been, they said to one another that night, three weeks from the time they first met to the time they first went to bed. Later, after they’d made love, said it. Made love three times. How’s he remember that? Because she later said to him that same night “Good things might come in threes”—said it in so many words—“but this was too much of a good thing. I hurt.” Anyway—

Anyway, after they’d made love — maybe after the first time. Maybe after the second. Probably one of those for he doubts it was after the third. For after the third she said what he just said she said. But after one of the other two times, they said to one another “I love you.” Exact words. He doesn’t remember which one said it first, but what of it? Just that they both said the same thing. He said it or she said it but right after one of them said it the other said it. Then, after they’d made love the third time — actually, only he’d made love that third time. She just let him use her. That’s what she later said in so many words too. “It hurt. It really stung. I wasn’t involved in it anymore. I was still probably very slippery inside from the previous two times, which is how you were able to do it so easily.” Anyway—

Anyway, where were they and when was it? Don’t lose it now. It was years ago. Twenty-five. More. They were somewhere. On a rooftop. In a tree. Flying on a cloud. Sliding down a rainbow. Standing on top of such a tall mountain that they saw a sunrise and sunset at the same time. It was at a friend’s house. Her cousin’s, to be exact, and his friend’s. He’d been invited for dinner. They’d been. Separately of course. Sandy. She’s dead now. Stroke. She was there when he got there. Denise. He looked at her while he took off his coat and rubber boots and thought “Now she’s quite something, that gal. This a setup? If so, I like it. But first let’s see how she thinks and speaks. She looks like someone who does both very well.” But time out for Sandy. Or Sandra, as she was called at her funeral. They went to it. With their eldest child. She was a good friend, cousin and friend-cousin-pampering-aunt to their children and always, far as they could tell and everyone else said, big spirited, even tempered, well meaning and up till her split-second death, in excellent health. Anyway — Poor Sandra. Anyway — They once made love. They were both dead drunk and long before Denise. He just remembered it, after about thirty years, and that he never told Denise and she’d never asked him if anything like that had ever happened between them. Nothing much did, did it? He thinks at best they each tore off his and her own clothes, stroked and poked a part or two and passed out till morning. Anyway—

Anyway, he told Denise what he first thought about her when he first saw her that night. Not that night told her. A week or so later. A month. After he told her she said “You know, when you came in”—in so many words, just as his thoughts and talk were—“and started taking off your outerclothes, I thought ‘Nice-looking enough, that guy. This prearranged? If it is, good going, Sandy. For once you might come close to hooking me up. He looks fairly intelligent too. No dresser though. Almost a slob. Not a big problem for now. So, we’ll see what we’ll see, OK?’” He doesn’t remember saying anything to her over drinks. Maybe “Hello, my name’s Howard,” and then she might have given hers. Of course she did if he gave his. They were seated opposite one another at dinner. Sandy said, after she said dinner was ready, who should sit where. There were about ten guests. “Nobody object. I know what I’m doing. I’ve been running over this network of seating places all week. The single and multiple conversations will just sizzle.” The living room window was behind her chair. The view was of another apartment building’s wall. He probably made a reference or two to it. And to the snow, which had been predicted but not in such abundance and had just begun to fall and became one of the city’s biggest storms for that or any other year. Certainly for that year, since that was another thing they later referred to about that night and their children, usually over dinner, liked them to remember for them: the record snow the night they met and how each got home. He thinks he walked and she bused. One of the children would know. He thinks he even offered her cab fare to get home. He lived about ten blocks uptown and she about sixty blocks down. “Just as a loan then if that’s the only way you’ll accept it,” he thinks he said, but she refused: “I’ll make do with a subway” or “bus.” Did he walk her to a station or stop? Doesn’t remember. They talked at the table to each other and others. Of course. But much more than “Please pass the peas and tuna and cheese casserole.” Though the main dish was turkey with all the traditional trimmings. Sandy asked him to carve it. She’d seen him do it at his parents’ home once or twice. What’s he talking about? She was his cousin only by marriage and he doesn’t believe she met his parents till the wedding. If she saw him carve a turkey or goose anyplace outside of her home it was later: when Denise and he had her over for a holiday feast, which he thinks they did invite her for once or twice. She must have said something like “Anyone here know how to carve a turkey?” and he volunteered, since he’d carved a turkey and capon at his parents’ home several times. Was it a holiday eve or night at Sandy’s? Around November or December, so could have been one of many. And someone else walked Denise to the station or stop. Or a group of guests walked together or she went alone. He might have offered, she might have said not to bother, but he stayed with Sandy — was the last to leave, in fact — to talk about Denise. Did it matter much that Sandy and he had once made love? Probably not. That was two years before, and the morning after they agreed it had been a big drunken mistake and to just forget it ever happened, if much, they said, really had — they didn’t want to go any deeper into what actually did happen since that was part of their starting to forget it — if they wanted to continue their friendship. Anyway—

Anyway, wine. He brought some. That’s not important. He’s brought wine to just about every dinner party at someone’s home for the last thirty-five years. For a while he was bringing two and a few times three bottles of very good wine to a dinner party. That was when he was a more serious wine drinker and just a bigger drinker and also a lot more flush than he is now. Denise refilling his glass. That’s why he brought up the wine. First she asked. He said thanks and she poured. But what he remembers most about it was that this woman he hardly knew and was already very attracted to would want to pour him another glass. First hers, then his? Doesn’t remember and what’s the difference? Perhaps there’s some significance, and she might have felt “How can I get away with refilling my glass without refilling his?” but “That was nice,” he remembers thinking. “I like it. She’s bold, free-going, present-time, doesn’t see wine as just a formality at dinner and linger over a single glass, and also doesn’t mind a man who drinks, after he’s probably had two or three predinner drinks, a number of glasses of wine and might even be encouraging me to,” though he doesn’t see how he could have assumed all that. She refill the glass of the person on her right? Denise and he sat at the end of the long table and each had a person seated next to him and her. Doesn’t remember, thinks not. Memory he has of it — really just a vague picture — is of that person talking mostly to the person on the other side of him and the one directly across the table next to Howard. Twenty-nine years ago to be exact. He just tallied it. He remembers dates that long ago by the age of his first child. So all he has to do is remember how old Olivia is and he always seems to. She’s twenty-five. They were married almost to the day a year before she was born and they got married three Januaries after the November or December night they met. That would make it twenty-eight years ago to be exact. They had three children, two girls and then a boy. They’re all grown up, out of college or never entered it, professionals or on his or her way to becoming one, but on their own. They had the children quickly, three in four years. That was very tough on Denise in a number of ways. Olivia alone seemed to cry from birth onward for three straight years. Now she’s remarried. Denise is. Actually, Olivia is too. Her first marriage lasted a year. Had a fourth child, Denise did, by her second husband, who already had three by his first two wives. Olivia doesn’t ever want to have a child. “In this world?” she’s said. Her husband’s just about said the same thing. Her second husband. “By war, riots, famine or nuclear accidents, the kid would never live till middle age.” Her first husband wanted desperately to have a child. That was the main reason she divorced him. But he helped her with the children — Howard did — helped Denise — as much as possible in every way he could. That’s what he remembers and also remembers her saying at the time. Later she said he had hardly ever helped her with the children. But there was practically no letup in childwork for both of them for seven or eight years. That wasn’t why Denise divorced him: that he had hardly ever helped her with the children. “Incompatibility,” she said, “principally,” and that it just wasn’t a marriage anymore. To her it wasn’t. To him it still was. Very much still was. Not just that they continued to make love. He continued, she said, but who was she kidding? Even if she wanted to be rid of him at the time, when it came to their lovemaking she continued to be into it as much as he. Let’s face it: sometimes she forgot what she wanted too. Anyway—

Anyway … anyway. “That’s OK,” one of his daughters — Eva — used to say when she was three and did something she thought one of her parents would scold her for. “It’s not so bad.” Always worked. But where was he? In his room. Where he is. Wasn’t his question-an answer too — but that’s OK. Lying in bed. Light on above. Ceiling light. All his clothes on. Shoes on. Only light on and only light in the room and his only room. What he’s come to. That’s OK. Things could improve. Doesn’t really care if they don’t. So? Thinking of Denise. There. Where he was. Called her a year ago. Good. Get right into it. No more whatever they are. Diversions, discursions, ramblings, roundabouts. On Olivia’s birthday called, which is how he remembers it so well: when it was. First Olivia—“Happy birthday, darling”—then, long as he had the receiver in his hand and was thinking family, Denise. That day’s — Olivia’s birthday — coming up in less than a week, so it’s been almost a year exact. Last time he spoke to her but not the last time he heard her voice. Why be cryptic when he knows better? Denise’s. His wife for nineteen-and-a-half years. She said “Nice to hear from you. How are you? How’s work?” Things like that. Finally: “Awful,” he said. Good. No more diversions or detours. “I wish you hadn’t told me that,” she said. “I really don’t, if you’ll excuse me, want to hear how bad off you are in a mental, emotional, professional or even in a physical kind of way.” “Mean, mean. You once wanted to or at least didn’t object.” “One more remark like that and I swear I’m hanging up,” she said. “Please don’t,” he said, “even if I know you’ve every reason to or just about. I’ll come right out with it: I called to hear your voice. If Phil had answered—” “Bill,” she said. “Or your child Annette—” “Anita.” “I would have hung up. No, if Anita had answered I would have said ‘Oh, must have got the wrong number.’ No, I would have said ‘Hello, young lady. Could you put your mommy on please?’ Then when you got on and said hello and then maybe Hello, hello, who is this? Is anyone there?’ I would have hung up. If Bill had got on I would have said nothing. Or just ‘Excuse me, must have got the wrong number,’ and hung up. Then I would have called the next day or two later.” “Why are you telling me all this?” she said. “No, forget I asked.” “I would have called the next day or two later just to hear your voice. That is, if I hadn’t heard it the first time I called, since not only might Anita not have been able to get you but you might not have been home. But if you had got on the first time without Bill or Anita first getting on, I would have just said nothing. I would have just listened to you saying hello or whatever you would have said, but that’s not what I did or what happened. I mean, you did get on, but I’m talking to you. You’re listening to me. I mean, you are still there and perhaps still listening to me?” “Yes,” she said. Anyway—

Anyway, what? Well, that that phone call wasn’t a year ago. It was last week. No, last week he called and only heard her voice. She got on, he heard it and hung up. Not as quick as that but he’ll get into it. Last year he spoke to her on the phone. So last week when he called she must have known, if she remembered what he’d said in his phone call a year ago, who it was who hung up a minute or so after she said “Hello, who is it, anyone there?” a couple of times. She knew. Had to. He called. Anita got on. He said “Hello, little girl, your mother home?” She said “Just a minute please,” and yelled “Mommy.” Denise got on, said hello. He said nothing. She said “Hello, who is it, anyone there?” He heard in the background “Who is it, honey?” That was Bill. Or maybe another man. Maybe Bill isn’t around anymore. Maybe he’s dead, run off or they’ve separated, divorced. Maybe this man was a new lover. Called her honey. Had to be close to her. Or maybe Bill was on a business trip and the lover was with her only for the night or for the entire time Bill was away. No, couldn’t be. She wasn’t like that and would never be. Have a lover over while her husband was away and her daughter was home? No. Maybe he was her new husband. But she said to this man — probably Bill—“I don’t know, nobody’s answering. Maybe it’s a crank. Hasn’t hung up though. Was it a man or a woman, Anita?” and Anita said “A man.” “What did he say to you — exactly, do you remember?” and Anita said “To get you.” “Hello, who is it? Is anyone still there?” she said into the phone. Then “That you, Howard? I’ve a sneaking suspicion it is.” He waited a few seconds, she said nothing else, he hung up. That was last week. A year ago on the phone he told her why he had called. Not only about wanting to hear her voice. About his life. How lonely he was with all their children grown up and gone. With just about nobody around. No woman in his life for years now, years, since she left him, he told her. “Oh please,” she said. “You? No women? With your emotional needs and sexual drive? Come off it. Anyway—”

Anyway, twenty-eight years ago was it? He took her in his arms. She took him in hers. They took, they took. She was on top, he was on top. They held each other all night. That’s the way he remembers it. Most of the night, then. Part of — what’s the difference? They held, held. Exactly three weeks after they first met. Saturday, Saturday. They said “I love you, I love you,” many times. She can’t deny that, any of that, now, but so what and why would she? All in the past for her. He kissed her whole body. Tell it. He said “I don’t want any part of your body to feel left out.” She said “I like that line, I like it a lot.” She kissed most of his body soon after. Slowly: here, there. Not just pecks either. Some of them big kisses, long. He turned over: here, there. She did what he’d done, he did what she’d done. Remembers it, so much of it, as if it were happening. Next morning she said her vagina still hurt. He said he just had a tough time peeing too. “No, my vagina,” she said, “not the hole where I pee. It’s sore. Hurts something terrible. I think I need an aspirin. Two.” That first night on her big bed in the dark room her hair hung long and loose when she was on top of him. Hung all around his face, covered his head and neck completely. Looking through its thin vertical slats, just a little light filtering in from he can’t remember where — street? bathroom right outside her bedroom? — it seemed as if he was looking out of what? Tent, he thinks he thought then. Tent with thin vertical slats? Hair like thin vertical slats? Filtering in? Trickling in? He looked out of hair, that’s all, long fine loose hair that covered his head. He kissed her breast when she was on top of him. Kissed and then grasped it with his lips till she said “Please, that’s not the spot now; stop.” She was on top the first time, he the second time, they were side by side, she with her back to him, the third. “Only way I can possibly do it,” she said. “No energy to get on top again, and you get on top again and I’ll burst.” He kept slipping out that third time and kept putting it back in. He just wanted to do it three times with her that first night. Adolescent, he knows, he didn’t think then, but so what? He wasn’t excited anymore. Erection, yes, but didn’t get excited till the end, and even then not so much. But it was as if with three she was his, or something. One was normal, two could be accidental but wasn’t atypical, but three was difficult, intentional and maybe memorable. Three clinched it. After a brief sleep he thought of trying for four but felt he might fail at it, and that might somehow undo the ones they’d done and the memorableness of their number. Four would be pushing it, would be pushy. He might have been physically able to do it if she’d got down on all fours and he got behind her. That had usually been the most exciting way for him and usually still is, but it would have been too much to ask of her, it seemed. Maybe too early too. Though doing it that way the first night for either that second or third time might have done something toward clinching it too. But she was tired, she’d said, and sore, and keeping herself in that position for the time it would have had to take to do it wouldn’t have been easy. “What are you trying to prove?” she might have asked him. “Once can say it all,” she once said to him a year, maybe two later. They did it seventeen straight nights. Just once and sometimes twice each night. The eighteenth night, when they were in bed and he started to kiss and rub her, she said “What are we trying to prove by doing it every night? It’s getting silly. Let’s prove we can go to sleep once without screwing.” He’s never done it five times in one night with anyone. Four, just with Denise once, and once with some woman he forgets now. He was probably never physically able to do it that often or knew a woman who let or wanted him to. Both. All three. Six. That would be something. What would it feel like after? Would he feel anything but pain or irritation during? Would six be physically damaging? He might be able to do it five or six times — might have been, rather — in one night if he’d had two or more women to do it with. Seven would probably have been impossible no matter how many women he’d had to do it with. Eight, impossible, period. So he called it quits that night with three. It’s not something he’d do now or even be physically able to do in one night with one woman: three. Certainly not something he has the chance to do now. Maybe in a whorehouse, if he knew where there was one and he had the money for it and the woman let him. But he hasn’t been to one since a few months before he met Denise and wouldn’t go to one now for a number of reasons. Anyway—

Anyway. Anyway. He wishes he were young. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Around the age he was when he first met Denise. That she were young. Around the age she was then too. That he could meet her for the first time. That they had no children, had never been married. Married, what’s the difference? But no children. That they were at a dinner party. Any kind of party. That she was sitting in the living room or standing there or in the foyer when he first got to the party. Or that he was sitting or standing in one of those rooms or the kitchen when she walked in soon after she got to the party or the public hallway right outside the crowded foyer when she was coming upstairs. That they’d look at each other for the first time. Speak, all of that, a first time. Ask the other to pass something at the dinner table or across the bar. Salt, pepper. A bottle of wine, plate of canapés. Smile, say thank you, you’re welcome, not know each other’s last names yet. Know nothing about the other’s family and very little what each has done educationally or does professionally or wants to do in either or both. That the scene would suddenly jump to three Saturdays later. Sundays. Fridays. Two weeks later. It didn’t have to take so much time. He was hedging then. Didn’t know, though he knew he was very attracted to her and she seemed to be attracted to him, whether he wanted to see her again. Knew he’d get involved. Didn’t know if he wanted to. Thought he might want to play around with several women at one time. They’re in bed. Hers, his. She had actually called him after he didn’t call for a week and said “I thought you were going to call. Anything wrong? Tell me and I won’t bother you again.” Just remembered that. They’d met for coffee a few days after the party, took a long walk, had a good time together, laughing, joking, telling each other deep and personal things about themselves, and a week after that was when she called. Blanket, sheet over them. Nothing over them, no clothes. She’s on top of him first, he’s on top of her first, later holding each other through some to most of the night. Outside, a thunderstorm. Lightning. Went on for a long time. She asked if he was frightened—“I am.” Storm had wakened them. He said “No, but it’s wonderful having thunder, lightning, rain batting the windows and you with me all at the same time for our first night. Sort of enshrines it, or something.” Just remembered that. The electric storm and almost exactly what he’d said. He’s thought of it before but not for years. She said that was sweet. They probably then kissed, covers must have been back over them, and maybe it was then when they started to make love a third time. He started to. She just turned onto her right side and let him put it in. Now on a single bed. One small room with a kitchenette. Had a large studio then, much better furnished. She had two rooms with a full-sized kitchen and a backyard. She was making lots of money, for more than a year she was one of the leads in a very successful play. It’s been a bad year for him. Several bad years in a number of ways. He doesn’t have a phone. Called her from a booth that last time. From his phone in his previous apartment a year ago. She can’t call him even if she wanted to. Why would she want to, except maybe to say one of their children is sick. She could send him a letter. A telegram, if it was an emergency, though she’d have to get his address from one of the children. It wouldn’t be the same thing, a letter. Remembers hers. The good ones, ardent ones, ones that said — only one did—“So bus the 450 miles to see me, but see me, for I need and want you now.” Not like the letters after they split up. “Please don’t call—don’t call, that’s all — or ring my downstairs buzzer, wait for me at work, send me anymore gifts, telegrams or letters, bother me in any kind of way again.” Anyway—

Anyway, should go to sleep now. He’s tired enough. Has to be at work early tomorrow. Isn’t: end of job. Odd that he’s making less now, in what the money buys, and gets less respect at work, mainly because of the kind of job he had to take at his age just to survive, than when he first met her. Probably not so odd, but then was he ever on his way. Turns off the light, turns over on his side — right side, but don’t make anything of it — cups his hands under his cheek, wishes he had two pillows. They always slept with two each. Her habit. He got to like it. She had two for herself when he met her and wanted two for herself when he moved in. They went to a store to buy two more, but the same kind she had in case their pillows got mixed up on the bed. But enough of that. Shuts his eyes. Thinks of himself sitting on a rooftop. Climbing a tree. Sailing a boat. He never sailed. Hasn’t climbed a tree since he was a young man. He was sitting cross-legged when he never does. She sailed before she met him — with the man who played her father in the play: just friendship; they’d never made love — and liked to sit cross-legged in her short nightie while reading on their bed, but that doesn’t have to be the explanation why. They’re naked in bed. Image just entered. He didn’t do anything to bring it on. Nothing immediate he means; now. It’s that first time again. He remembers her body so well. For those twenty or so years it only imperceptibly changed. Maybe a little more. She studied dance for years, continued to as an actress, during their marriage always ran, swam, did dance warmups, kept in shape. Waist, breasts, hips, arms, legs — all like a dancer’s. Muscular buttocks, calloused feet, delicate hands. The neck. Strong stomach. Her face. Long blond hair usually brushed straight back with a barrette on top or pinned into a chignon. Dirty blond hair to almost brown by the time they divorced. Always so soft. Covered his face. Sucked her nipples when it did. Right one was the one he preferred, maybe because it was the easiest to reach. That make sense? Could. Ran his hand down her long hard deep back crack. She’s on top of him now. Grabbed her ass and squeezed and rubbed. Pressed it into him. Steered their movements just like she did. They came, one of them first. Rolled over. Soon started doing it again. They said “You know, I love you.” “And you know I love you.” “And I love you.” “And I love you, my darling.” “And you’re my darling too and I love you.” “And I love you, my darling sweetheart, I love you, just you.” “And I love you too, my darling darling sweetheart, I love you, just love you, I do.” “Love love love,” one said. “Love love love love,” the other said. They came, slept, sometime after that started doing it again. He did. She let him. All that’s been said. If that hasn’t been said then should have been assumed. Long kisses, all kinds of kisses. Telephone rings. Must be ringing in the apartment across from his or is in his head. Listens. Ringing stops. “Rachel, thought it was you,” a woman says. He imagines her speaking on the phone to him. “My darling, I haven’t changed and I’m coming right over.” Her clothes, body, feelings toward him? “My sweetheart, I’ve changed somewhat, but who doesn’t in ten-some years at our age, and I’m coming right over. I’m going to jump right into bed with you when I get there. How could we have let it go on like this so long? I let it. But enough talk. I’m on my way.” She comes. Rings the vestibule bell. He opens his door while she’s running upstairs. “As you can see,” she says, “I’m still in pretty good shape.” He pulls her down on him. First closes the door. First tears off her clothes. First hurries with her to the bed. He had waited naked for the half-hour it took her to get there. He raises the top part of his body to hers. Their heads meet, chests. They open their mouths. Kiss for a minute like that without stopping. He’s inside her now. Just happened. Corresponding parts found their way. For the time being he doesn’t feel much down there; it’s all in the kiss. Her hair around him. Still soft and fine. Used to frizz up a bit when she took a hot shower or the air was damp. Then he falls back on the bed because he can’t keep himself up like that any longer and she falls on him, clip their teeth and almost chip them, and they start kissing again and holding each other as tight as they can without hurting the other, she with her arms under him till she has to pull them out because, she later tells him, they were beginning to hurt.