Frog

21. Frog

“Great, we’re in the car, all packed, ready to go, apartment’s been raked, burners all off, windows up so no to little dust when we return, everybody buckled up? sitting back? — so let’s get out of here,” and he pats Denise’s knee, starts the car, checks the street through the rear view and his side mirror, looks over his left shoulder, truck’s coming, “Come on, come on, you’re not supposed to be here except for a delivery and you’re wasting our precious time, we’ve a long way to go,” truck passes, checks the mirrors again, over his shoulder, all clear, same in front, even the light’s green and with enough time to make it, and he goes.

“Where do you want to eat tonight?” he says to Denise at the first red light and she says “You made a reservation for the Breakwater, so do we have a choice?” and he says “I made it a while ago, but you said you might want to change things around a little and go to a seafood place in Cape Porpoise,” and she says “We can do that coming home, for you didn’t make a reservation for that night also, did you?” and he says “I was going to tonight — to be safe, since it’ll be the Thursday before the Labor Day weekend; but then I was thinking the Breakwater’s gotten so expensive and fancy with the candles and no wine carafes,” and she says “Still, it’s close to the Green Heron, so you can walk the girls to it and I’ll drive,” and he says “You feel safe doing it?” and she says “What, the equivalent of two city blocks?” and he says “But your feet, you say they don’t feel the pedals,” and she says “Not right off most times but I’ll go real slow, and back the car into the Green Heron parking spot so I don’t have to pull out in reverse,” and he says “I’ll walk the girls, get them on the porch or inside and run back and drive you,” and she says “That’s a waste of energy and unnecessary,” and Olivia says “Is the Breakwater where they have the rainbow sherbert I like?” and he says “Dot’s de platz, hon,” and Eva says “I want rainbow sherbert tonight,” and he says “Only if you finish all our dinners — OK,” to Denise, “we’ll stick with the Breakwater — it’s simpler — but maybe for the last time.”

“Dinner, why are we talking dinner?” she says, “we’ve got a few hours till lunch yet,” and he says “Same place in Holland, Mass — Goodalls, Goodwalls?” and she says “If we can make it before the girls starve,” and he says “I packed a food bag just in case — those baby bagels, carrot sticks and such, even a tahini-spread sandwich for you, so we’ll try for it?” and she says “Do we have to settle on it now?” and he says “You know me, I like to get most things done ahead of time so with a clear mind I can go at the few things I really like doing,” and she says “Why don’t you then get your gravestone made and engraved and obit written and invite the guests you especially want at your funeral and unveiling and related rituals? — perhaps a big blowout after,” and he says “Nice premortuary talk in front of the kids, and please don’t mention blowouts while we drive,” and she says “Just asking but when did you make the Breakwater reservation?” and he says “To make or break the makewater breakavacation — when the Green Heron opened for the season, so around April,” and she says “Don’t you find that a wee bit something?” and he says “Maybe even March, but remember a few years ago in May when I tried for a room at the Heron and they were booked through Labor Day, so we couldn’t even stay there coming back?” and she says “A small affordable unassuming room for a night in a chic summer resort is one thing, plus we had four cats then, but a large restaurant where there are many other restaurants of supposedly similar size, quality, prices and view? — the worst that could happen is we’d wait half an hour to an hour for a table which would mean the kids would play and bother us a little, I’d read and you’d get semibombed on two straight-up martinis at the bar,” and he says “Well, I made it off the office phone, same time I made the Green Heron reservation, for the latter made me think of the other, and here it is today and we’ve nothing to worry or later be bothered or me tomorrow hungover about and no hour to lose,” and she says “That is something, I suppose,” and rests her head back, feet up on the dashboard, big sigh, shuts her eyes.

That a way, close yourself off and pretend to be tired when you want to get out of it — not fooling him. And what the fuck she going on about and got to be so tired over? — she sorted the bedding and clothes, that’s all, and too much of them, meaning more than he needed to pack, while he did his own things and the rest of the work to get them on the road at almost the exact time they planned for: loading, cleaning, yesterday’s pickup for UPS, scavenging the neighborhood for boxes before buying them at the store, car oiled and lubed, tank filled, tires, making all the calls for the paper delivery up there and cut off here, getting the phone in and utilities turned on, instructions to the post office here to forward the mail and there to hold it, last-minute shop, bringing the kids’ library books back, all the necessary checks, monetary and otherwise, in addition to defrosting the fridge — worst chore there is, with that refrigerator, other than changing a tire, which he’s done once a summer for years so will probably have to do it this one too — and gassing and burning himself cleaning the oven. His father used to say to him “I work and you’re bushed, no doubt from watching me.” What’s probably the case with her is she resents he can run around like that and do so many things so fast and efficiently so bitches or tunes him out. But for going back and next summer he’ll say help him out some by taking care of everything she can do by phone and sitting at a table doing a few pen squiggles and she’ll probably say she’ll be glad to if he doesn’t ask her to do it long before she has to or if he hasn’t already done it. She’s right on a lot of it — he likes to get things out of the way too much — and she does have her illness, but at least give him a little credit for all he did. It’d be nice if they had something else to talk about now. A book, Chekhov story he just read and she’s practically memorized, an elaborately interpretable sociological subject or news events, something that could carry them smoothly through the next two tedious hours of the trip, or a string of those, some interesting part of his or her life the other doesn’t know of or has completely forgotten and which would bring other things to mind. He was always awful at thinking up conversation starters while she’s always been good at it, being that kind of teacher and more of a listener than he, but it’s not something he can ask her to do: Think up some good hot topics for talks, otherwise we’ll be bored.

She knows why she harped on him like that. Physically drained, leg muscles ache, right eye’s not focusing right, not enough sleep, bad night with her bladder — you’d think he would have said something this morning she woke him up so often last night — but mostly him pressuring them so they could get out by the prearranged time: get dressed, finish your breakfast, this bag ready to go? the medicine chest cleaned out? pulling the half-eaten bowls and plates away from the girls so he could clean the dishes and table, sweeping up, then yelling crumbs, more crumbs, because Eva was eating a croissant and dropping a few flakes, without asking her shutting the radio off and packing it when she was cooking and listening to a piano piece she wanted to know the name of, nagging her how much longer she thinks she needs, half-hour she said, half-hour to her is always an hour he said, can she make a half-hour a half-hour this time? Another woman might think it not endearing, not amusing, ludicrous for sure, but something his advance planning, and he does take care of lots of things she hates to do but more likely is unable to, so, “helpful,” though not quite that either. But his compulsiveness and occasional rudeness in carrying it through cancels his helpfulness. If only he could say that sometimes he does things just a bit peculiarly if not wrongly, she’d say let’s open a good bottle of red wine tonight for she sees a start on his part of some sort of self-awareness. And please, to keep the peace, no more word games that make little sense — she hopes that fakeavacation was only an aberration and not the running mood of the trip.

She wants rainbow sherbert and she doesn’t want to share it with Eva. She’ll ask for her own cup, and if they say one cup with two spoons, she’ll say Eva has germs, everyone has germs, she’s been looking forward to it all year and she swears she can finish it all, and if they say if she finishes her portion they’ll think about getting another cup she can share, she’ll ask for her own flavor, lemon or vanilla or whatever there is except chocolate and coffee and anything with raisins or berries or nuts, since Eva will only want rainbow. If there’s only rainbow and some of those other ones she doesn’t like, she’ll go along with them but ask them to promise for when they drive back and go to the Breakwater that she can get her own cup of rainbow. If they can’t promise that she’ll say just think about it then and tell her later but don’t say absolutely no.

That man’s so old. He walks so slow that his dog’s going to walk away from him and never be seen again. She should shout to him to walk faster and catch up. Or to get a rope and tie the dog to it and hold on tight. They lost Kitty to coyotes last summer she heard them say when they didn’t see her, which is why Olivia and she hate the house they call the black house they’re going to. Where is he? Daddy drives so fast she can’t almost see the man and his dog anymore. “Daddy, you’re driving too fast.” “No I’m not.” “Daddy, listen to me, you have to slow down.” “Please, sweetie, don’t tell Daddy how to drive — Listen to her, Denise: Eva the boss — You forgot to order me when to floss my teeth and go to bed last night, Eva.” “Daddy, I don’t order you anything and I am not the boss. You’re not the boss either.” “I’m not the boss?” “Nobody is, but I want you to do what I say now — go slower.” “Eva, I’m serious, you’re distracting me, so pipe down.” “Don’t say pipe down. You said never to talk angry or to say shut up.” “I said to pipe down, which is like a musical instruction because of your beautiful singing voice — to make the sound softer and the feeling behind it sweeter.” “You said to shut up and I’m saying everything you say you say to yourself and not me and you have to slow down.” “Look at that linguistic construction,” he says to Denise, “when last year it was blur-blur-slow-blur-down.” “Shh,” Denise says to her, “don’t bother the driver.” Man, catch up with your dog or you’ll lose him and then you’ll be sad. She wishes she had a dog. A dog could kill coyotes or run away from them or get a bunch of dog-friends to gang up on them and chase them away. Not like Kitty who was old and blind and Daddy shouldn’t have let her outside for air. But they won’t get her one. He says they’re dirty and full of kaka and their mouths stink, and Mommy said if he doesn’t want one then she’ll have to wait till she’s old enough to get one for her own home. She can’t wait that long. There might be more coyotes then and not so many dogs and she’ll be afraid to lose it like Kitty.

“Look at this traffic,” he says. “The world’s ugliest expressway, the Cross Bronx, dividing the bloody borough in two.” “Why bloody?” Olivia says. “Because there are murders in it?” “Because it sounded good. ‘Bleak’ would have been more appropriate, but could I have said bleaky? — Should I take the left thru-traffic or the right?” “Stay on the right,” Denise says, “that’s always been better, even at toll booths for some reason.” “That so?” Considers. “Eh, I don’t know.” “I don’t know why you don’t, since you’re the one who told me it and a few times proved it along with running commentary.” “Well, if I said it then it’s got to be true, right? Right.” Stays right. Bad shot at conversation. Try to get something better going. “You know, when they were building this charnel house for cars I was dating a girl in the Bronx. It was a block or so from her building and we used to walk to it at night sometimes because it was quiet and unfrequented. Think of it: the Bronx, a walk, at night, not an Italian neighborhood, and we’d go there to look at the rubble and equipment and complain of it and of course to make out. But I knew even then what it’d do to this bleaky borough.” “You can’t say that,” Olivia says. “I know, dear — I remember — veddy social-conscious-head then — I used to get real hot under the collar as to what the city was doing to the Bronx. I was very anticar then. People, I used to say. What about the people? Well, I still say it, or think it, but not with the same fervor. Now it’s children.” “What’s make out?” Olivia says. “To take a good look.” “Like stare?” “Like stare.” “Was that Sharon Hirshkowitz?” Denise says. “You told me about her. Where she wouldn’t let you beep-beep or even close to it. And after a year you got so frustrated by it and other things in your life and the slow way things were going that you wanted to quit college and join the army reserves and get your service over with and they rejected you and so on. The one who married some big TV quiz-show producer and host after she worked for him as a secretary right out of college and later divorced him and got a few million plus his miserable expensive art collection.” “She would only let us play with our hands — down there — you know, temporary relief — but for more than a year and a half? I swear, I almost forced her to once and everything was off and she cried and cried and said she understood and was sorry and I stopped. We used to see each other almost every day at college and weekends, write each other poetry and a week alone at her sister’s house on Fire Island and that sort of stuff. What a waste. Imagine today?” “Oh, in some ways things are as prudish if not worse.” “The religious right, states banning every kind of abortion, some textbook censorship, the NEA thing, right? I don’t understand the particulars of that controversy but you’re telling me some government institution’s going to define obscene for me? Based on what the average person thinks — prurience, community standards and all that?” “I know; it’s absurd.” “But what do you think?” “Sharon? This expressway? The Bronx in general? The NEA?” “Yeah.” “I wouldn’t force myself on an expressway or want one, no matter how much I loved them, forced on me, but most of it the same as you.” “The NEA?” “What I said — absurd, odious. Careful, we’re coming to the Major Deegan turnoff on our right.” “Who was the Major anyway? — Not interested? Probably engineer corps. Maybe the guy who designed the Cross Bronx Expressway and the title’s honorary or he got it in World War II for shooting his general — Don’t worry I got it. My high school principal was a Deegan but that’s about what I know of him. Two thousand boys. He had a crewcut. I forget with an A or an E.”

Where’d she put her diaphragm? Doesn’t remember putting it back in the case or the case into the cosmetics bag. No, she put the case into the bag and the bag into their overnight valise but doesn’t remember putting the diaphragm into the case. Still in, she forgot. They should make one with a benign alarm in it to go off after the sixth hour or, if she knew she was going to be around anyone except her husband, to set it to just tickle her. Wanted… started…was playing with herself early this morning in bed when she couldn’t sleep. Thought he might be interested. He usually is with a little prompting and if he hasn’t done it in a day or since the previous night, and has joked it’s his duty to serve her that way whenever she wants. Joke or not, he’s usually done so except when exhausted or drunk. And if she tells him all she needs is a few minutes of vigorous fingering and him in her another few — this is mainly for sleep, no orgasm necessary on her part but be her guest on his — even better for him because then he’s home away free — after he finishes fingering, quick as he likes which she thinks he likes best even if he’s said slow way, long buildup, with her coming, is infinitely preferable. Got up to pee, put it in when she sat back on the bed, thinking better there than in the bathroom since it’d be a hint to him if he was awake and even a turn-on, that slapping sound, the jelly smell, and just watching her insert it. Kissed his shoulder, he didn’t respond. Kissed his neck and back — he was on his side turned away from her, didn’t respond. Felt his thigh, penis — at first she was sure he was pretending not to notice her. He stayed soft so he probably was asleep, since she never knew him not to respond somewhat when she really rubbed it except when he was exhausted, etcetera, sick or it was too soon after they last did it. Young men. Some could do it three times in a row, when she was young, which maybe had something to do with it — her body then, to look at and what it could do and take — with only a few minutes to a half-hour needed between orgasms, and a couple of them could stay hard and in and start right over again and sometimes three times a night for several days in a row, which really made her ache. While she doesn’t remember him more than a couple of times coming twice in a night and with probably a few hours between. Quality over quantity? Not really. Some of those young men were just as able and felt as good, but no doubt most of them have slowed down too. She played with it a bit longer and then didn’t want to be a pest. Should have tried doing it longer to herself but her condition’s made it nearly impossible for her to finish even with him in her. And this morning, girls still sleeping, he was in such a rush to get things done for the trip that he was up before six. She said in her head when he was dressing “Come back to bed, I want to have sex.” Should have said it aloud, and if he just smiled and went on dressing, said something about what he’s said is his duty and that they can make it quick. Strokes his leg, he smiles, takes his hand off the wheel and squeezes her hand and puts his hand back on the wheel. “So we’re friends again?” he says. “When weren’t we?” “Lots,” and whispers “Come on, we’ve hated each other sometimes and a few times at the same time.” “I guess that’s true but yes, friends — you’re a dear, and do we have a choice?” Whispers: “You can always leave me. I’d never leave you but I’d never make a row if you left me.” “So you say about both.” “What?” Olivia says. “Nothing,” she says, “we’re talking — But didn’t you once say a young woman — younger by twenty years than you — last one you were with for a while before you met me — said that about you: that you would and she would never and a month later she ended up leaving you?” “Who did?” Olivia says. “This is private,” she says. “Just sit back, and you have a book there, read or look out of the window.” “I’m bored.” “So read. That’s what we got you the new books for.” Olivia picks up a book. He looks back at her, sees she’s reading, Eva’s playing with a doll, says to Denise “She had a venereal problem with a D. Not with a, well, I can’t find the right initial, but she wasn’t a hot babe — not like you. Maybe it was just to me because of the age difference.” “Don’t be silly. Dozen years later, women that age must still be attracted to you. You’re very X-E and you know it.” “Sure I do, sure I am, sure they are. But I told you she gave me it, this V with a D. Actually with an A, for ailment — initials that crawled.” “You did.” “But by the time I met you I’d been disinfected. Actually, she was the next to last before you. There was the one I met at the U of C reading I gave and which five people came to. My only groupie. She’d read a story of mine once, one of the three she’d read in her adult life — she was an English major so didn’t read much fiction — and since I was the only live writer of the three, she was impressed. After her I thought of going on tour — it was so easy. Are you married?’ she said, after I signed the photocopy of my story she had. If you’re not or you are but legally or mutually separated, I’ve a car outside if you want to go home with me.’ Later I learned she was mostly a lesbian. Pre-AIDS by a few months, so no problem. Now who knows what I’d do.” “So that’s why you’ll never leave me. I’m the only woman you’re sure is virus free.” “You got it. So, it’s the Breakwater after all? Settled? Because it has become pretty expensive and so chichi. That whole town has.” “It was always chichi but worse since the VP became a P” “Blueberry bagels, strawberry mustard, Kennebunkport air in a can. Farts, that’s what’s in them, a secret they’re able to keep for they figure nobody’s going to open the can. Fug ‘em.” “Don’t curse,” Eva says. “Don’t say fuck.” “I didn’t and don’t you. I said fug. It’s a dance. To do the fug. Let’s cut a rug with the fug.” “Don’t push it,” Denise says. “It’ll make it more memorable to her.” “Hey kids,” he yells, “a barge. In the water. So, getting closer to Maine. This river to that reach to that ocean. No cows or those immaculate clouds yet but I see them way off in the distance.” “What else you see?” Olivia says. “Hey, Country View Drive-in. Milton, the owner, feeding his pet rabbits and geese in those cages next to the outside tables and then racing back to the kitchen to cook up a mess of fishburgers. We’re on our way, Milton; see you for snacks in two or three days.” “What else you see?” Eva says. “Well, through the rearview mirror there’s grandpa leaving his building to walk to Zabar’s to send us some of your favorite plain bagels and cream cheese — he doesn’t see how we can live without them up there. And in front, but only as far as southern Maine this time — oh no, President B., his helicopters, landing in Bennyshlumpsnort just to crowd up the joint with reporters and secret servicemen and ruin our day — stay away. I really do hope he isn’t in for the weekend,” to Denise. “It’s always twice as crowded, even at the beach I take the kids to where the voters jam the shore hoping to see him at the wheel of his speedboat. I don’t know why they expect to sight him. Most of those Maine motorboat guys his age look alike — tall, gangly, angly, deepcheeked, peaked cap down to their long thin noses, but I guess no one else has gunboats preceding and following him and a flying gunboat overhead. ‘Oh look, there he is.’ ‘No, I think that’s him.’ ‘But they look exactly alike and same with their boats.’ ‘The first one’s an impostor to take the heat off the real B.’ Or how about what I heard on the beach last year: ‘I just got word on my CB he’s left the compound by boat ten minutes ago and is heading this way.’” “If he is in town I hope he jogs by the inn as I heard he does. It’ll be exciting, especially for the girls to see him — or eats breakfast there tomorrow, which he’s also done.” “Tomorrow’s Saturday, fish and zip-along-the-water day, so no jogging or breakfast away. Save that for after church on Sunday when the news cameras have nothing to do and he can wave at them. And I don’t want to be frisked by the S.S. a dozen times before I even take my first coffee sip. But can you believe it, everyone? Breakfast at the Green Heron tomorrow, tonight some fresh-picked crabmeat hor-durvy and local grilled fish, the best night of the year for me. Maine to look forward to for two months. And no beds to make, clean sheets, a clean bathroom, nothing to clean up, taking the kids to the beach before dinner if it doesn’t rain — please, dear God, no rain. Then back to the inn for a scotch with their rocks and reading the paper or a book while you bathe then. And after dinner back to the inn again, no noises outside but the distant shore banging and bugs busting their brains out against the screen. Beach and tree smells and those wild bush roses — and all this after a long car trip with only me at the wheel, no crit intended, so even better. And big comfortable bed with several fluffed-up pillows and at the restaurant a bottle of good wine between us or one-fifth you, four-fifths me, so from Major Deegan to major love, what do you say?” “You want it confirmed beforehand?” “Wouldn’t mind.” “If no major disturbances, I’ll be ready. Was, this morning, if you didn’t know.” “I didn’t. Why didn’t you moan something, grab or nudge me?” “Oh well, but you brought scotch?” “Sure, in an old applesauce jar, about four shots’ worth, but sealed with duct tape and then in a plastic bag and tied, so don’t worry, it’s with my things and won’t spill.” “Who was worrying? I just don’t want you to get drunk or have too much of a headache tomorrow to drive well.” “I also brought Alka-Seltzer and stuck a few aspirins into my wallet, wrapped in foil, just in case.” “Our exit’s coming up soon. Four or five, but you’ll know it by the one right after the Yonkers racetrack. It’s beside a big disorderly looking shopping center, and looks more like an exit to it than to 287. If I nod off for a nap now you’ll get us off this and onto the expressway OK?” “I remember how. Cross County, a.k.a. 287, exit to it on the right — keep a sharp eye out for it looks more like a turnoff to the center than an entry road to the expressway. Then Cross County to Hutchinson north or east to the Merritt Parkway and all the way to the end of the Merritt where we can either make a right to a road leading to 95 or continue straight ahead to Hartford on the Wilbur Cross. But you’ll be awake by then and if you’re not I’ll get you up to help make the decision between the two.” “Wilbur Cross, why not? We’ve never taken it north but took it coming back last year and you said it seemed faster than our usual route: 91, 95 and so on.” “But the unknown. Will we know how to get to 84 or 86 or whatever it is out of Hartford? They were changing the numerals last year and it was all screwed up and we made it right to Wilbur Cross just by chance.” “It’ll be posted; they’ll have worked it out. After a year I bet there are signs still saying ‘86, once 84,’ or ‘84, once 86,’ or was it 84 or 86 to 184 or 186? No matter what, there won’t be a problem. New England isn’t New York City.” “Are we in Maine yet?” Eva says. “No, dummy,” Olivia says. “Don’t talk like that,” he says. “You’d want her to give that same crap to you? — No, my doll. First New York, which we’re still in, then Connecticut, Massachusetts, New Hampshire for not very long, California, South Oregon, North Oregon, Washington state and finally over the Piscataqua if that’s the name of it Bridge — I think Mommy calls it Kittery Bridge because it ends up in Kittery and has a nicer ring to it and she never wants to chance spelling Piscatooey. Then about twenty miles on the Maine Turnpike to Wells and 9 or 6 or 1 or a couple of those roads till we’re in Phlegmylunkpork, Lemonyjunk-wart, Georgiepishpot, Bushyposhfort, over the quaint Water Street bridge with hundreds of under- or overdressed tourists gawking around where to spend their next thousand bucks, right at Ocean Avenue at the souvenir-shirt shop and about a mile on it past Whale Watch till hello Green Heron Inn and maybe the green heron itself sleeping by the pond there. Supposed to be good luck if you see it but don’t wake it.” “Then my luck the last few years should have been better,” Denise says. “From today on, the Times’ travel section said. But lets hope no slip-ups, car-disrupts, torrential rains, wrong roads, souths instead of norths, wests instead of easts, or we’ll be behind in time and we all want to get there on the nose to carry out our plans, correct? and which I expect will be,” looking at his watch, “five-o-dot.” “Coming to our exit,” she says. “Slow down, stay right. You see it?” “I see it, I know it, now I got it — why you checking up on me so much? I could do it blindfolded.” “I know how upset you get — either of these two dividing roads in front will do, since they come together soon — when you miss an exit on a long trip and have to go back for even a few miles. Every time we miss a familiar landmark — the Charter Oak Bridge, the truck or moving-van billboard with the real truck on top of it in Wooster or Lawrence I believe — you say we could have crossed or passed it ten miles ago, if we had to backtrack five miles, or ten minutes ago and we won’t make it on five-o-dot and that sort of thing. Do you remember the worst one?” “Sure. You were at the wheel. I was navigating and the overhead Maine and New Hampshire and Cape Cod arrow-right sign wasn’t up yet, nor the left one to Springfield. Maybe just little ones on the side we didn’t see or just ‘Mass Pike, East, West.’” “I was pregnant with Olivia then — seven months… July, August, September — well, six plus — but wanted to divorce you on the spot.” “Good thing we weren’t traveling with two lawyers, a judge and court.” “I thought you’d never come out of it. The Big Pout I called it for a few years. For that wrong turn cost us about fifteen miles in the opposite direction before we could turn around, so thirty miles or thirty minutes or so and at the time you weren’t this generous to admit who was controlling the map.” “Forty minutes, ten of which I later made up by doing seventy-five to eighty over a long stretch without getting caught.” “What happened?” Olivia says. “Daddy was being so nice to Mommy she got all confused and made a wrong turn.” “No, what happened?” “You don’t believe me? — She doesn’t believe me.” “What happened, Mommy?” “You read too many books, kid,” he says. “You should be asking what’s a pout or ‘controlling the map’ means.” “I know what those are.” ‘That’s what I’m saying. You know all the words. But you should be asking what they mean instead of trying to find out the grimy details of every grim scene. Well, Ms. Drew, this case you ain’t gonna solve ‘cause you ain’t gonna get all the facts.” “What’s a pout?” Eva says. “A pout’s — oh, I’m lousy at definitions. Your mom’s much better at it.” “What’s a debonition?” “An endearing — agh, there I am using that word again as if I didn’t know it was a phony one and didn’t know any other. A debonition’s a real sweet pronunication of definition.” “What are they, Mommy — endearing, pruncation and the ones I said?” “A pout is a grimace, a scowl,” Denise says, “like this,” and pouts. “And pronunciation, which is how you say it, is the way words are pronounced, spoken. And definition is the meaning of a word. For instance, grimace and scowl are other words for pout.” “What’s meaning?” and Denise says “What I said — what a word means.” “It can also be an interpretation of something,” Olivia says. “Did you hear that?” he says to Denise. “Everybody — hey, fancy lady in the speeding Mercedes out there, did you hear that? My kid! Both of them, one for serious asking, other for her answers. What’s that?” Cups his left ear. “‘Way beyond us’ you say what she said? — And look, just noticed, hardly any traffic around — now we’re going, now we’re cooking with gas. And hey, everybody, Hay’s Farmstand in Blue Hill — just remembered. I don’t see it but I do smell it. Organic carrots and sugar snaps, seventeen varieties of red lettuce, blueberries with worms in them because they’re not sprayed — can’t wait.” “They haven’t worms,” Denise says, “or few that do won’t have live ones if you cook them, and don’t scare the kids or there’ll be more things they don’t eat. And I’m going to conk out for about half an hour now, you have the route straight? Were coming up on Hutchinson—” “I saw the sign.” “Left — it’ll be a sharp one — good. Next, Merritt, which it goes right into, and why not Wilbur Cross, since both parkways are overgrown so with less sun on them.” “Okey-doke. A shady journey. Say, good title for something, though nothing I’d do.” “What about the one I gave you,” Olivia says. “Slow and Low — you never used it.” “It’s good — who knows? The Slow and Low Stories; one character named Slow, the other Low; maybe one day.” “And The Lonely Bed, Eva’s title for you.” “That’s more for a single short piece or a children’s book. A bed that can’t find anyone to sleep on it because it’s too lumpy or hard. Or it’s in an old Maine attic or barn for a hundred years with no one to talk to but a mosquito or earwig before an antique hunter finds it, says ‘Hey, pure oak, great bargain,’ and goes through all sorts of purchases and fixings-up to make it sleepable. New mattress and box spring and designer patchwork quilt and sheets and maybe even a friend or two for it now that the insects are gone — a night table and bedlamp — before the bed’s finally slept on to its delight, so much so its springs squeal. Maybe we’ll write it this summer. Or I just gave you the idea, so you write and illustrate it.” “No, you the words; something for the two of us to do.” “OK, collaborators. But now you two rest back there. Mommy wants to nap, right?” to Denise. “Will music disturb you? “If it’s not clashy-bangy-squeaky modern or even a Scarlatti sonata too loud.” He looks in the rear view, sits up and adjusts it. Olivia reading, Eva looking at one of her books but blinking as if she’s about to doze off. “Fix her pillow and she might get two hours.” Denise does—“I’m not tired,” Eva says — buckles up again, rests her head back and shuts her eyes. His beautiful wife who always looks better to him full face than profile. Nose, chin, now sacks under her eyes only seen from the side. And what happened to her breasts? Used to look at them from this angle and up till not even two years ago they were always fat or full and jutted out, even after the kids were weaned; now like anybody’s; when they’re hanging over him, two of them just about fill his hand. Diet, disease, maybe the drugs. And her calves: mottled, ankles swollen, when before like, well anything but like alabaster or marble, but for now that’ll do: like the rest of her body except her buttocks: smooth, white. Her hair, always thick, wavier than usual today and with more ringlets; must have washed it when he was packing the car and leftover wetness and the humidity’s doing it. Loves those curls. Like, well anything but like a young woman in a Renaissance painting holding a single pink or rose, but for now like one of those. “Don’t ever cut your hair more than an inch or two — please; don’t ask me why.” Eyes him. “Speaking to me? It might fall out from chemo, in clumps or patches, so be prepared for that, but I won’t cut or shave it — promise.” Eyes close, back to the look she left; usually falls asleep in the car with a little smile, but over nothing he said. Fair unmarked face skin, not just pale; big broad forehead with a big broad brain behind, yellow-green eyes he loves the color of but can’t look at very long. Maybe that’s the way with all light eyes: pretty but they don’t draw you in deep. Or they do draw but don’t eventually stop you like dark eyes do. Oh who cares and what’s she thinking? Probably just letting things come in or wondering why he brought up her hair. Why not her buttocks and neck? Well, he did think of her buttocks he’d tell her if she asked. Once fairly soft and large, now short and hard like a professional dancer’s or athlete’s because of all her exercise and weight loss, though pocked more than before: exercise? age? babies? not the drugs. Everything but the pocks he’d talk about. As for her neck, well anything but like a dancer’s or swan’s or a dancer dancing a swan, but for now that, and with her head arched back against the seat, even more. Or she could be thinking why’s he keep looking at me while I’m trying to fall asleep? Worried about me? Or thinking of leaving me because he’s afraid he’ll be forced to take care of me completely in a few years? Help me up, help me down, turn me over in bed to avoid bed sores, dress me, undress me, bed pans, wiping my ass, feeding me, wiping my mouth, probably no sex, pads all during the day, diapers when I sleep and my pains and complaints and muddled talk? Also what I might look like then — shouldn’t have mentioned the hair loss. But if he does leave, let him — just don’t take the girls and she’ll deal with it best she can: parents, friends, professional care. In other words: who needs the stiff if he’s going to screw around with whatever she’s got left to fight this fucking thing and make matters for her even worse? She wouldn’t use fuck in any form, probably not even in her head. She’s never said it around him except once when they had a big row and she said, after he said “Fuck you” to her, “Go fuck yourself too, you fucking prick.” When she wakes he should ask about the car smile and maybe what she thinks before she dozes off. If she asks why he could say he just wants to know someone else’s thoughts and thought process but his own. His work bag! Feels behind the seat on his right where he thinks he put it, feels Olivia’s leg, bag of Denise’s health foods, cooler, some books but nothing else on the floor. With his other hand feels on the left side but can’t get back there very far. Doesn’t like to take his eyes off the road for more than a couple of seconds but sits up, turns around and looks behind his seat. Bag’s there, Olivia’s reading, Eva’s asleep. Should have asked Olivia to look but didn’t think of it. Shouldn’t have panicked the way he did because suppose there’d been an accident because of it? His two kids, his wife hurt, maybe killed, and over his work? Not there it’d be somewhere, in the apartment, or if left on the street when he was packing the car and was now gone, then a great loss but not something he couldn’t eventually make up for most of it and for all he knows come out better than before. It’s happened — page mysteriously lost, page mistakenly used for scrap paper and tossed out — probably because he wanted to make up for the loss so much that he concentrated and worked even harder on it. If he couldn’t make up for it, if nothing came back and couldn’t be reproduced and he lost it all or what hadn’t been photocopied and put some other place, in the long run so what? But what’s he gain by finding or not finding it right away or later, for think of the risk he took. Well, if he found just now he didn’t have it in the car he’d stop and phone the doorman in their building and ask him to see if the bag was still in the lobby from when he took all the things out of the elevator and if not to go outside to see if it’s where the car was parked. If it wasn’t in either place he might drive back to see if he left it in the apartment, but he’s sure he didn’t. He remembers carrying it downstairs but doesn’t remember if he set it down outside the elevator or took it straight to the car. Actually, just to make sure, he’d ask the doorman to go into the apartment and if he found it there or in either of the other places, he’d ask him to send it express and he’d send him a check for it plus about twenty bucks extra. But the risk he took looking behind the seat while he drove. Pictures what it could be like now, a minute after. He’d be alive, Denise and the girls would be all over the place screaming, maybe no screaming, stop. If one of the kids died from an accident like that or lost an arm or eye, it’d end his life. Or sort of, or close to it, certainly worse if he was responsible for it, or even that can’t be predicted, but stop. And he said if his kids died, what if they didn’t but Denise did? He’d suffer, more so if he was responsible for it, or equally so, he’d be miserable for months, for a year, for a long time and then would try to hook up with someone and get married and have a child or two by her and having the new children which he wouldn’t have had with Denise would make up for it some he’d think. Suppose Denise asked him how much of her falling apart does he think he can take. Why’d he think that? Something from before, connected to his depressing thoughts, or even the cooler with her ice packs and cold cap for if it gets too hot for her in the car. He’d say — truth now, what? He’d say — Things are always difficult to predict, he’d start off with, how one would react to something like that. How does one know how accustomed one can grow? And by falling apart, how bad? If she said: on her back, couldn’t get up, had to be spoon-fed or through tubes, body a bony mess, so on, he’d say he loves her, would never think of forsaking her under any circumstances — deserting, leaving — it’d be terrible for the kids besides: how could he face them, and if he couldn’t face them, how could he see them, and if he couldn’t see them, how could he live? Nah, getting too fancy and off the mark. What would he say after he said he’d never leave? That he went through this with his sister a little and a lot more with his dad and both of them for several years so he’s familiar how bad things can get and used to them he can become, doing things he didn’t think he could and being of some help. So, what’s to add? — he’s here to the end, no question about it, the end meaning till the end of their marriage, which means till one or the other of them croaks of old age as they used to say, and he hopes that works both ways. Scratch the last. She’d say he’s just trying to make her feel good, for he knows he’s as healthy as a horse. So was she, he could say to that, but that wouldn’t be too good either.

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 thinks. 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, Eve-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 that,” 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.