Frog

6. Frog’s Break

A break. Olivia’s watching the one hour a day of TV they allow her to. Denise is in the bedroom nursing their three-week-old baby. He pours coffee out of the thermos — this morning’s, but doesn’t want to spend time making fresh coffee — and goes into his room and shuts the door. What to do? An hour, but only if Eva falls asleep right after she’s fed. She doesn’t, then if Denise doesn’t ask him to walk her to get her to sleep or gently bounce her to bring up the bubble. First a postcard to get started.

“dear jack: sorry for not writing sooner, please excuse my now writing a pc but it forces me to be brief, also excuse that i leave just a 10th of an inch margin on both sides and start at the very top and will end at the very bottom, with maybe the bottom half of my last line left on the platen, but this way i can get in as much as i do. of course all i usually manage to get in is this explanation and the preceding excuses, look, your rt about what you said, remember what that was? i doubt ive room to go over it here, it was in your last letter, you say you keep copies of all yours, so you mt want to check it to find out. as for summer rental you want to take, we plan to be in that area also, so if thats whats stopping you — are not being there-excuse me: ‘our’—dont let it. of course — so many of courses; why, when im so concerned about this pc’s limited space? — of course if it ends up where we cant afford the house we want and hv to go to cheaper pastures — browner ones — just hv to go elsewhere — what can i say? also, youre rt about my work (at the end of your letter; other ‘rt’ was in the middle), so what if — oops, out of space, best to m, your pal, h. ps: no time to correct thi”

He should also write his mother. No, quicker to call. Goes into the kitchen and dials. “I knew it was you,” she says. “How? When I heard the ring I thought ‘That has to be Howard; it can’t be anyone else.’ Crazy, right?” “Well, it isn’t Howard. It’s Jerry.” “Don’t tell me. I know my sons’ voices. Jerry talks faster, higher, and he only calls Monday, from work, between one and two, which must be his lunch hour. So I’m always here then, because one time he called later in the day and gave me an argument why I wasn’t here between one and two when I ought to know by now that’s when he calls. He’s never called from his home once. Has he ever called you from there?” “I don’t know.” “Four times he’s called from a hospital, all the other times from work. Once each when his three children were born and once when he was in one after his heart attack, which he still denies he got. Gas, he says, but a paralyzing attack of it. He called that day to say don’t visit because he was getting his clothes on now to go home, but they convinced him to stay two more weeks.” “Good. Listen, I’ve the train schedule for this weekend.” “I don’t know — you don’t think you’ll be too busy and tired from it all?” “We can manage it, believe me. And I want you to see Eva before she’s grown up.” “I know I mentioned this before, but where’d you ever get that name? I mean, some names, even with just the initial, one could say it stands for somebody in the family. But Eva? Nobody in our family had a first name with E in it in anyone’s memory, and your father-in-law says nobody in his or Vela’s either.” “It’s a nice name. Dark, eve, feminine. Or near dark. We also wanted it to be as strong as the name Olivia — but also to contrast with it — which we thought of as airy, light. And she is dark — her skin coloring and hair.” “That’s now. Her skin might not get lighter but her hair could all fall out and come in as blond as Olivia’s. And you chose the name before you had her, didn’t you?” “Even if she turns out to be light in everything — hair, skin and weight — still, we like the sound of the name. But what are you saying, you don’t want to see her because you don’t like her name?” “Don’t be silly.” “Only kidding. But look, I’m really in a hurry, so what about this weekend?” “Why you rushing so? Keep on like that and you’ll get as sick as Jerry. Take it easy; you now have two babies to take care of.” “OK. But how about the nine o’clock on Saturday and I’ll pick you up at the station at 11:47?” “I can take a cab when I get there.” “Please, don’t argue, Ma. I really don’t have the time. And it’s easy — not like New York. Always a parking spot at the station. Or the ten o’clock and I’ll pick you up at 12:35.” “Why is one ten minutes longer than the other?” “Probably an extra stop. Metropark or someplace. So, either of those okay?” “Ten o’clock. That way I won’t have to rush. What do you want me to bring?” “Nothing. No, if I say nothing, you’ll go over an endless list of things, so bring bread and cheese. A good slab of parmesan would be nice, and smoked mozzarella. Anything you want. A corn bread and seeded rye unsliced. But don’t overload yourself. Take a cab to Penn Station. Call for one — Love Taxi, for instance — and they’ll pick you up at the door. And keep your pocketbook closed when you’re there and your hand on the clasp. We’re all looking forward to seeing you.” “Thank you.” “Before I forget. Get a special senior citizen round-trip ticket. The regular round-trip discount fare isn’t good for Sunday, but the senior citizen one is.” “I hate going up to the ticket counter—” “Do it, don’t be ridiculous. You’re fifteen years into your senior citizenship, so take advantage of it when you can really save. If I could get away with it, I’d do it too. No I wouldn’t — I mean, illegally — but do what I say.” “All right.” “Much love from Denise and me.”

He goes into his room, sits back and thinks. I should do one of my projects now. I should start retyping it. I should get it going and finish the first page in the forty minutes or so I’ve left or maybe if I come back to it tonight when the kids are asleep or Olivia’s asleep and Eva’s feeding and work on it every day like that and finish the whole thing in about two weeks. I never feel good unless I’ve a project going. End one, begin one, work on one, end one, and so on.

He takes off the typewriter cover, picks up the first draft of a manuscript, bounces it on the table till it’s stacked and squared, puts it down, reads the title page — OK, nothing much, but he’ll make it better, turn it into something — puts paper into the typewriter and sits back and thinks. Why did I shake the baby like that yesterday? I could hurt its brain. Bleeding in the brain. I could kill it. Some kind of hematoma. Subdural. Read about it in the paper last week. Mother’s lover did it to her four-month-old baby. “She was crying,” she said. “We couldn’t sleep. He didn’t mean to harm it.” Something like what I did. I was trying to work and she wouldn’t sleep even during the time she usually does, even after I walked her a lot and two diaper changes. Why am I such a cruel prick sometimes? She was crying. Babies cry. I also squeezed her too tight. In anger. I could hurt her kidneys. One of her inner organs — she’s so small: several of them at one time — by squeezing her like that. Why did I also drop her on the bed from so high up? Why from any height? I was actually mad at her. For keeping me from my work. She was taking up too much of my time. But I could have hurt her back. Broken it. Maybe done something to her head. I still might have. I said to her but very low so Denise wouldn’t hear: “I’m mad, you little bastard, can’t you see? Why are you crying so much? Stop it.” People will find out. Denise will. That’s not the problem. Problem is why I do it. She cried for about a half-hour straight. Denise was napping in our bedroom at the other end of the hall. I didn’t want her to get up and say something like “She’s not hungry, I just fed her, so maybe she needs her diapers changed or you’re not walking her right. Or she could have developed a diaper rash. You check? But I can’t get up every time. I need some rest.” The baby’s cries are penetrating, but so what? When I held her to my chest and walked her, she screamed in my ear. I said “Damn, must you do that?” and reamed my ear with my finger, though it wasn’t in any way bad as that. I was doing that for her. It’s stupid. She also slobbered on my neck and on my shoulder right through the shirt, but what of it? If it gets to me — any of it — admit it and wake Denise and say “Much as I know you need the rest and I hate doing this, I have to have a ten-minute break. If you can’t get her to sleep, I’ll take over and you go back to bed.” I did the same with Olivia. Denise never found out. One time she said from the next room “What’s happening — why’s she screaming?” and I said “I don’t know, suddenly started, must be gas.” Treated her cruelly sometimes. Sometimes bordering on violence. A few times, violently. The first three months were the worst with her and when I lost control most often. She wouldn’t sleep for more than an hour or two at a time and usually cried when she wasn’t sleeping. When she was around two months old I held her upside down by her legs and said “Stop crying,” and swung her back and forth: “Stop crying I said.” A few times when I was alone with her and not even when she was crying — I was just frustrated at not having time to do what I wanted — I slammed the bed with my fists and screamed as loud as I could and just hoped the neighbors, if any were in, wouldn’t say anything to Denise about it. I scared the hell out of Olivia then with my rage and screams. This happened over about two years. She’d burst out crying, and when she learned to say the word, called for her mommy, and I’d have to hold and comfort her till she stopped. I’m sure I’ve traumatized her. She gets scared when I raise my voice about anything, even when I’m just joking about something or on the phone with someone. Runs out of the room whenever one of the puppets or cartoon characters on that hour-a-day TV program acts threateningly or angrily. Won’t let me read “The Three Bears” to her because Father Bear speaks in a loud gruff voice. Eva sleeps better than Olivia did and doesn’t cry as much. If I hurt her — I didn’t Olivia, at least physically, but could have the way I treated her sometimes — I know I’ll pay for it always or pretty close. They get hungry. Gas. They cry when they’re wet or tired. For a number of reasons when they’re in pain or uncomfortable, and sometimes two or three of them combined. The bubbles hurt. The rash. They may also cry for reasons people can’t be aware of. What’s in their dreams perhaps. But none of that should get to me, or surely not as much.

The night he got down on his knees, when Olivia was around one and sleeping in a crib, and he practically prayed his apologies to her. Closed his eyes, clasped his hands, said “I’m sorry, my sweetheart, for acting so horribly to you. I don’t know what gets into me sometimes, I swear. Please forgive me.” Cried. Then for another year continued to treat her badly, though maybe less so and not as cruelly. He doesn’t want it to be like that with Eva. Wants to stop now. This moment, the end. Has to tell himself that yesterday was the last time he’ll treat her like that, squeeze and shake her hard and drop her on the bed and so on. Also has to tell Denise what he’s done with both children. That he knows he won’t do. But if he stops, he won’t have to tell her anything, unless he later finds out Olivia or Eva has been physically damaged in a way he could have been responsible for. Then, since it’s possible if the doctors know how it happened they might have a better chance of correcting it, he thinks he’d admit what he’s done, but isn’t sure. Probably not.

He looks at the manuscript. Doesn’t like the title now. Needs one before he can start completing a piece. It’s part of its completeness. That’s always been the case and he doesn’t want to start changing his work habits now. Maybe by the time he gets to the bottom of the page he’ll have come up with a title. But he’s never done it that way. Just call it “Jobs,” that’s all. “Just Jobs” is even better, for that’s what it’s about. A man’s jobs. Just about an endless series of them for forty years with no end in sight. Just tired old age in sight, with maybe some savings and pension for him and his wife to get by but little energy left to start or complete any creative work anymore. He writes “Just Jobs” at the top and starts typing. It starts: “I start, deliver, come back, sort, pack, box, wrap, deliver, get a little tip, back, sort, pack, box, wrap, again and again for a couple-years. My first job. I’m ten.” Awful, and he tears it out of the typewriter and throws it into the wastebasket, rips the manuscript up and dumps it into the basket. A ripped piece stays on the basket lip and just as he reaches over to tip it in, drops on the floor on the other side. Always something sometimes; where it never goes just right. He leans over. Paper’s just out of reach and he doesn’t want to get up to get it. Too tired. But he likes a neat room, always has, everything in its place, something about visual aesthetics and also if things look too chaotic, which doesn’t take much for him, he gets disoriented and begins thinking he can’t find anything and even starts typing the wrong keys. Won’t even put up with a small paperclip or piece of paper the size of a small paperclip on the floor. Maybe a staple or two, pulled out of paper with his thumbnail or that had been jammed in the stapler, is about all the disorder he can put up with on his floor or desk. Stands, picks up the paper and puts it in the basket. “Now don’t try to climb out. You do—” Why’s he talking like that? Fun, that’s all, having some, but suddenly it sounded too strange to him. Not that if Denise overheard him through the door he couldn’t explain it to her. “I was having a heart-to-heart with my heart.” No, that would make it worse. But to himself, he just doesn’t like it. Wasting time too. Sits.

Never ripped up a first draft of anything and felt regret after. If a piece doesn’t feel good — if he’s not excited by it after he’s done the first draft — it’s just no good or not worth working on to finish it. Something will replace it. Always has. Either something new, which he’d try now if he had the time, or the other first-draft manuscript.

He puts that one on the table where the first one was, paper into the typewriter, likes the title, types it at the top and starts typing from the manuscript. It starts: “So he goes down. Went down. That’s the right expression. Babies are ‘put down,’ which has nothing to do with it, just what he’s been doing lately. The expression we always used about him and is most common. Quite common. Just very common. His brother Lon. Twenty years ago and more. Much more. Twenty-five. Twenty-six to be exact. But here he is, back. Just rang the bell downstairs. I said into the intercom ‘Yes?’ He said ‘Lon.’ I pressed the button to let him in and he came up. ‘Lonathan, Lonald, Lonnie, why hello. I want you to meet my family. That’s what I’ve regretted most about your not being here all these years and having gone down in that ship. Is that the right expression, I mean, term?’ ‘It’ll do,’ he says. ‘That you never met my wife, my first child and now my second. I’m not saying my first child is my second but that I have one. Two to be exact. Daughters. You always said you wanted sons. Lonsons, you called them. Oh Lon, I’ve missed you so, which goes way beyond any regrets I’ve had that you never met my wife and kids.’ I take his hand and kiss it. It’s made of sand, falls apart while I’m spitting.”

Rips it out of the typewriter. No good and never will be, and throws it into the basket. Where was his mind when he did it? Worries him. Never did anything this bad, so maybe something’s now missing. He rips up the manuscript and drops it into the basket. Never ripped up two first drafts at one sitting before. They were written back to back shortly after he finished the last piece, so maybe something’s been missing awhile without him knowing it. Maybe the last finished piece is nothing what he thinks it is. No, don’t overdo it. These two as first drafts and possible finished manuscripts, stank and should have been dumped right after he did them. All he needs is some time to do a good one, but maybe the next sitting.

He writes on the back of a thank-you card. “Dear Aunt Louise. Thank you for the lovely”—What did she give Eva? The acetate stretchie they gave a few days later to their super for his daughter’s baby? He’d ask Denise now but doesn’t want to waste even more time. Because he really could still begin a new piece. A quick first draft of a very short one or the beginning of a longer one. Puts the thank-you aside, paper into the typewriter, thinks who else hasn’t he thanked yet whom he’s supposed to? Denise writes all the thank-yous for presents from her friends and family, he does the ones from his, and friends they both have but didn’t come into the relationship with, she’ll write or ask him to. Lily and Ruben. “Dear Lily & Ruben,” he types. “You know how I hate these printed thank-you cards. Know from the note I inserted in the thank-you card for the gift you gave Olivia. But Denise felt, and I kind of go along with, that as long as we had them for O, we should for E, or else she might take it as some sort of rejection slip. Blip that slip. Just: Eva will feel quilty — what am I talking ‘guilty’? Rejected if she happens to find out later on. When she’s 4, 14, even 24. Anyway, thanks for the silver baby cup. I hope it lasts longer than the one someone got Olivia when she was born. Hope it wasn’t you, by the way. Be an awful way to find out what happened to it. Like all good silver, it wasn’t indigestible. Indestructible. Unintentional. Trying to write this too fast. It was soft silver. That one I stepped on in the dark and squashed. The dark unlit room at night. I wasn’t in the dark figuratively. Meaning, my figure was but my mind wasn’t. Some thank-you. But really, thank you. This cup 111 keep off the floor, or at least when it’s on the floor, the room in light. And I know the last cup didn’t come from you. You gave that nice tartan wool crib blanket that Olivia sucked a few fringes off of but which Eva can still now use. See what a memory I gots?” Xes out the last sentence. “Both gifts were very generous of you. But you know, when we had the birth announcements made, something Denise also wanted and I only eventually went for, I wanted to have printed on them ‘Please, no gifts. Our apartment’s one filled closet just from the gifts we got for Olivia’s birth. At the most, have a cedar planted in Lebanon in Eva’s name or give what you would’ve spent on a gift to your local right-to-abort clinic, no slur, smear, swipe, sneer or stigmata intended to our kids or any national or natal strife.’ Should I also X those three sentences out? And the last plus this? Denise vetoed it. Not the Xing or to get gifts but because — lots of reasons. Smothering natural good-natured-ness, for one thing. Maybe making those, who hadn’t planned to give gifts, self-conscious that they hadn’t planned to, for another. More. That it might seem like a hidden signal, for those who were wavering or hadn’t planned to, to give gifts. How? Some way. People know me by now? But Denise is well, Olivia’s taking baby and banishment (confined to her own room for the 1st time in 15 months) pretty well, and I’m barren and wasted but fare-thee-well. What the hell’s he mean by that? Time will tell. This’s becoming a no-note. Beg-pardons, thanx, loves & bests from us all around, H.” Pulls it out, folds it up and sticks it in the card and looks for his address book. Not on the table where it usually is, so he’ll look for it later, and puts the card on Aunt Louise’s.

Now, and sticks paper into the typewriter. But a student paper. Should have it done with comments for a conference with the student day after next. If he gets all his school work out of the way he’d really feel free, if not for today then tomorrow, to do his own work. Gets the paper out of his briefcase, reads it quickly, types. “How can I begin to judge the content of your work when I can barely wade thru the poor punctuation, spelling, grammar, paragraphing, you name it? Plus, why the very skimpy margins, making it doubly difficult to read, 18–19 words to a line, 29–30 lines to a page? Save it for letters to friends or notes to yourself but not lit papers which the teacher, whose eyes are lousy to begin with and his glasses a year too old, has to read some 15 of at a time.” No, much too tough and self-something. Stupid, wrong, that’s what it is. Try a gentler approach, but can’t think how to do that with this paper now. Later, and puts the paper and what he’s written about it on the cards.

Student recommendation. Tacked to the wall facing him. She said last week it should be sent out by this Friday if it’s to be of any use for her grad school application. He told her “Then you should’ve given it to me weeks ago, because I’m too busy with a zillion other things, not to mention my own stinking work, to be rushed. But OK.” Took it from her, didn’t smile, might have even snarled. She said thanks, looked angry or hurt, left without saying goodbye. He wanted to yell out after her “Oh by the way, you’re welcome.” He should have called out to her “Wait, I’m sorry. It’s the new baby, so not much sleep.” Or when she first came into his office: “Sure, no problem, we’re all running behind, but TU make it.” Even added: “You sure a reference from me won’t hurt your chances? Only kidding.” He should call her now to explain. Better when he next sees her. Takes the form off the wall, fills in the first side, turns it over and puts it into the typewriter. It starts: “One of the smartest, most articulate, pleasant and mature students to have come my way in years.” Used that several times before, but doesn’t think for the English Department of this grad school. “I also got to know Felicia a little better than I have most of my students, simply because she was extremely interesting and has a magnetic personality and for some reason we’d periodically bump into each other on campus. During these encounters she would tell me what she was doing, pursuing, books she’s read, and so on, and I was never anything but deeply impressed by the range of her interests, consistency of her goals and values, depth of her thinking…” Won’t do. They might think he was carrying on with her. Starts it again, on university stationery. “I’m afraid I’ve misplaced your reference form. I hope this letter will do, since I don’t want to jeopardize Ms. Sollenberg’s chances by requesting another official form and possibly returning it long past the deadline.” Repeats the first sentence he wrote on the form, changes the next part he thought might be misunderstood. “Let me add that from time to time Ms. Sollenberg would come to my office during office hours…” Seems he’s trying too hard to show he hasn’t had an affair with her. He does think she’s very attractive. Maybe that’s what’s screwing up the reference. Likes to look at her face, chest and legs when she isn’t looking, her behind when she leaves his office, but never thought of starting anything with her. Never has with any of his students. Though some of them over the years — not Felicia — have made what could be interpreted as verbal or visual passes at him. But suppose, suppose, one of the students he’s attracted to said “I want to screw you, Mr.” or “Dr.” or “Professor Tetch,” or just “Howard,” which he prefers them calling him but so many can’t do. “Would you like to screw me, but right here and now, I’m saying?” What would he do? He’d say no. If he had a condom on him maybe he’d say yes. For suppose she also reached for his fly — he knows he’d have an erection by then — what would he do? He’d slide his chair back and say Stop. He’d put his hand inside her skirt or open her fly or just pull down her pants and sit her on top of him. He’d make sure the door was closed and locked. Would not. Door always stays open. That’s his protection in case a student — it’s happened here and in other schools — wanted to accuse him of making a pass at her or even of fondling when he never did anything. She could still accuse him, with the door open, but less chance of it. He has an erection. He touches and then grabs it through the pants, shakes it, thinks “Can’t do it here, can in the bathroom, but why waste it? We haven’t made love in three days. We’ll probably do it tonight.” But if Felicia — probably the student he’s most attracted to — said something like that, what would he do? If she said what? “Let’s fuck right now on your chair or the floor.” It’s ridiculous. He’d say the floor’s filthy, the chair would never hold them. Suppose she said “Put a sign on your door next time you’re to have office hours, saying Office Hours Canceled Today. Then come to my apartment. I’ll see that my roommate’s out, but I won’t tell her who for. I never will. Just our secret for as long as you like.” Or “We’ll do it here or in my bed as quickly as you like. And if you like, just this once.” What would he do? He’d do it with a condom. Wouldn’t want to give Denise a disease. He’d do nothing. He’d say “I’m complimented, honestly. You’re great in every way and if I weren’t married I certainly would have started something with you, or tried to, long before now.” Or “You don’t understand. I’m not saying this to hurt or chastise you or anything like that, but my sex life with my wife is pretty near perfect and I don’t want or need, nor do I think I’d have the energy for it, anything extra. The urge to make love with her hasn’t abated since I met her. Sure, I’ve an erection now, but I also get one when my oldest daughter or one of our cats or even a heavy book sits in my lap. Or maybe it’s more. Say it’s because I’m aroused by you. Very much so, let’s say, but what of it? Also say I’ve thought of making love with you. Many times, or at least a pass. But what of that too? It’s all in the head. To entertain myself, maybe. Or to arouse myself for my wife when things are a little slack when I don’t want them to be or she doesn’t. When I’m having trouble getting it up — let’s say it right out. But I’ll do nothing to screw up my relationship with my wife. In other words, I’ve taken a long time to say that much as I might have thought of starting up something with you, now or in the future, I can’t and won’t carry it through and never will. Thank you.” No, he’d do it. He wouldn’t. But if she closed the door, made sure it was locked, said she won’t make any noise, will be very quick, will never say a thing to anyone about it, touched his penis through his pants, unzipped him, went down on him, while she was doing this put his hand inside her panties and held it there and even stuck his finger inside her and even began rubbing herself with it, what would he do? It’d never happen. He’d have to tell her to stop somewhere along the line. Maybe he couldn’t. The blinds would have to be dropped and shut. Would she do it, he? It’d have to be she, since if he did it there’d be complicity. It’s ridiculous. He puts in another sheet of paper, starts. “This is a letter of…” Maybe he’d only kiss. Kiss hard, open mouths and tongues, then pull back and say “I think that’s far enough.” Tears out the sheet, sticks in another. But if they kissed like that and she began touching him, maybe even pulling at it through the pants, how could he stop? Repeats the opening sentence about her being one of his best students in years, then “Listen, why beat around the bush about Ms. Sollenberg? Felicia. I’ll put it right to you — straight forward, rather than straitlaced, as I can be. OK, enough of that too. Just showing off and no doubt making a damn ass of myself. But this is it. I’ve work up to my ears now, from teaching, homebodying (one three-year-old, another brand-new) and my own writing, so I’ll be as brief as I can. She’s the most intelligent, personable, mature, perceptive, attractive, diligent, reliable and hardworking student I’ve ever had. Check check check on all the top-2 percent-of-my-students boxes (that’s to take care of side one of your reference form, which I spilled coffee on so am not sending). If there were a I percent category I’d check all those instead. Take her, she’s great, tops, first-rate, so grave mistake if you lose her.” Would never do. Rips the paper out and dumps it. Write it tonight when the kids are asleep, blaming yourself for being late. “I’m incorrigible but predictable that way. For their own sakes I wish students wouldn’t ask me for references, not only because of my tardiness but because I’ve never turned one down even when I thought very poorly of the student and his work.” Just write for another form and only say sorry you’re late. Now your own work. Still time. Try for a quick first draft of a very short piece. Who knows what’ll come? Sometimes when he’s very short of time a two-to-three-pager pops out, which in later drafts becomes six-to-seven pages. And maybe Denise, hearing him pounding away in here, will wait till he stops typing or typing hard before she knocks and says his hour’s long over. She knows when he’s hot into a first draft, and he never types that hard and fast for anything else except maybe a personal letter, and if suddenly stopped, he can lose it. He’s described it. In a few interviews and in his classes and classes and groups he’s visited in other schools. Maybe repeated it so much with only slight variations that word’s got around he only has one way of describing it. Champagne cork in his forehead which when he unplugs or uncorks, it flows out or spills or gushes out till the bottle’s empty. “But you know, champagne will turn” or “spoil if you don’t finish it in one sitting, since you can’t recork it as you can other wines.” Recently a student of his said his father bought a gadget that puts the champagne cork back into the bottle, keeping it fresh for a week or more. So he won’t use that analogy again, if he can remember not to or can come up with one almost as good. “Ejaculation, once it’s started, for example,” but maybe only in his graduate class.

He sticks paper in, little raps on the door. Must be Olivia. “Yes, what is it!” he says. “It’s me. Can I have a Gummy Bear?” “Oh come on, don’t bother me with that now, and you know I don’t like you having candy.” “Mommy says I can have one if you also say I can.” “OK, have one, but see if Mommy can get it. I’m busy; working. Let me alone for a few more minutes.” “Mommy says to ask you to help me. She’s with baby.” “Oh Jesus, damnit, all right.” He opens the door. “But only one.” “Two.” “One or none. Which is it? I don’t want you taking all day.” “One. I want to pick the color.”

He gets the container of Gummy Bears out of the kitchen cupboard, holds it open for her. She looks inside, holds her hand over it. “Come on, pick it quickly. Red, green, orange, yellow or white.” “Not white. It’s light, like light. But not like that light,” pointing to the ceiling fixture. “All right, light. And oh, poetry. But quick, which?” She looks in the container, hand over it again. “Orange is your favorite color. Why not choose orange?” “Orange,” and she picks one out and puts it into her mouth. “OK now. This is my one big hour to do some important work at home. So please be my little sweetheart and let me use it? Go back to your program.” “It’s over.” ‘Then into your room. Look at your books. Put on a record.” “I don’t want to.” “I’ll put one on for you. Maybe it’s still too hard. Sleeping Beauty. The beluga whale song by whoever sings it.” “I want you to play doctor and nurse with me.” “Not now. I haven’t time. That’s final. I’ll take care of all your bears later.” “Not all of them.” “Then just some. But go in your room and line them up and dress them in paper towels if you want. That’ll look like hospital gowns,” and he gives her the roll of paper towels from the shelf over the sink. “And tell them I’m—” She drops the roll on the floor. “I want someone to play with now.” “You shouldn’t drop things like that. Especially paper towels. We use them to clean things.” He picks it up and puts it back on the shelf. “I want you to play with me, or someone.” “Olivia, haven’t I been patient with you and clear? This is my break, my free time. So give me ten minutes longer. That isn’t much. Ten is little. So go into—” “No!” “I said go into your room,” and grabs her shirt at the shoulder and starts pulling her to her room. She screams, starts crying. “Shit ole-bitching-mighty,” he yells. “Why you doing that? You’ve nothing to cry about. I’m the one. Oh the hell. And I didn’t mean to pull at you so hard, or yell. I didn’t hurt you — you know that.” She backs away and cries harder. “What’s wrong?” Denise says from the baby’s room. “What? Speak louder.” “I said why’s she crying?” “I was just telling her — that’s all — telling her—” “It sounded like shouting.” “Well, shouting to myself mostly that an hour-a-day break is just too little.” “First try to comfort Olivia. I’m trying to get the baby to sleep.” He moves toward Olivia with his arms out. She’s sobbing now, backs off to a corner. “Sweetheart, please come to me. I’m sorry. Don’t make Daddy feel bad.” Gets on one knee. “Honestly, I’m sorry. I apologize. Your Daddy’s frustrated. You know what frustrated means?” She shakes her head, still sobbing. “It means I want to work more than I have the time to. And when I can’t, then for some dumb reason I get mad. But it’s OK. It wasn’t your fault. Here, you want another Gummy Bear? I don’t like bribing you to make you feel better, but maybe you deserve it.” “I don’t want anything,” and she runs out of the kitchen. “Ah, fuck it,” he says low to himself. “When does it ever go right? Plenty, plenty. But me and my goddamn fucking breaks. Stop it, stop it.” Oh for once, he thinks, just go back to your room and do what you were doing and maybe neither of them, because of the mood they know you were in, will bother you for another half-hour. It’s cheating but it’ll be worth it to them in the long run.

He goes into his room, shuts the door and says “So let’s have a first line. Give me a first. Give me a second. But first a first. Any first line that leads straight through to a quick first draft of something I really like.”

“Da-da,” Olivia says through the door.

“Da-da,” he types. “Da-da, I want—”

“Mommy says you should—”

“Today Mommy says I should, definitely should, do what?” he types. “I should go—”

She raps on the door. He rips out the paper, a piece of it gets caught in the roller. If he doesn’t get it out now he might forget about it and later it could jam the machine. He starts pulling it out with the tweezers he keeps in a utility box on the desk. He has a magnet in the box for retrieving paperclips that fall through the keys, a brush and sewing needles for cleaning the typefaces. “Da-da, I have to go pee-pee.” “You can’t do it yourself?” “No, and Mommy’s busy. She says—” “Damn,” he shouts, and slams his fist down on the table. An eraser pencil and his fountain pen jump up and fall to the floor. Probably busted the pen’s point. Should always keep it capped. When did he uncap it? Probably been there like that since last night. He jotted down a note and in his compulsion for neatness he must have put the paper the note was on back in the pile of scrap paper or dumped it into the basket. He forgets what he wrote. Can’t be important then. But it could be a good starting line, one he intended for that. Did he? Was it? Heck with it. She’s probably peed in her pants by now. Denise will love that. Heck also with trying to squeeze in minutes, thanking God for a free half-hour. She jiggles the doorknob, had been trying to turn it to get in but this door gets stuck. He gets up. Tweezers are still in his hand. She might think he’s going to do something to her with them. He puts them in the box. Opens the door. She looks sad, a little frightened. “Did you pee in your pants, sweetheart?” “No. Can I sit at your typewriter?” “Let’s just concentrate on your pee-pee. I also don’t want to be washing the floor and your pants.” He picks up the eraser pencil and pen, point’s OK, caps it, sets them side by side on the desk. Picks her up, kisses her forehead a few times as he carries her to the bathroom. Stands her up, unhitches her overalls, pulls them down and her panties and sits her on the toilet. She pees and shits. “Good,” he says. “A double success.”