Frog (78 page)

she says “Why don't I see myself home by taxi?” he says “No, I'll take you, but by taxi,” when the cab pulls up to her building she says “You don't want to take it while you have one? They don't come around here much,” he says “Nah, too expensive; I'll take the subway,” she says “I have money upstairs if you need,” “No, I'm happy with the subway,” at her door she says “It's awfully cold out and the whole trip home for you an hour minimum if you don't take a cab, want to sleep on the couch here?” and he says “With you?—oh, I shouldn't have said that,” and she says “If we keep our clothes on,” “Then why not in bed if we keep our clothes on?—say, great idea, Howard,” “Because I know you,” and he says “Well, I know you too, so
there—
ah, I'm acting like such a kid,” “Because I know what you'll want to do and why wouldn't you?” and he says “Well, why not then?—it's cold, we're warm, I love you, you don't hate me, we've made naughty-naughty together before and a couple of times swore we wouldn't do something and then did and enjoyed it—hey, I'm making a bit pitch here, baby, a really big one,” and she says “Just the couch, with clothes, I'd love holding you all night,” so they get on it, no pullout, blankets over them which keep falling off and she picks up and both of them put back on, he on the inside holding her tight for one reason afraid she'll fall off and then give up on it and sleep alone in bed, he can't take his pants off, though asks, because he has no undershorts, she just in underpants and bra and socks, once puts his hand down her pants, she slaps his wrist lightly and pulls his hand out, “Too bad, for I swear it'd be wonderful if you let it or just left my hand in there, I wouldn't let my fingers do anything,” “I'm sure so but no thanks, let's go to sleep,” breakfast, kiss before he leaves, says he'll call her, she says she'll be around all week, doesn't, not the next three weeks he's in New York, hated the horniness, his cornballness, didn't really sleep, tired entire next day, raised hopes though told himself not to, rest of it, no more,
forget
it, whole thing's such delusory nonsensicalness, seeing her, wanting to see her, dying to sleep with her, pining away for her, walking the streets thinking of her and hoping he'll bump into her, to have her love him, what shit, crock of, he could never understand her ever,
get that
, he's sure of it, so good luck to the next guy, and in a way a lucky guy, her face, shape and spark, et cetera, for it could only be with a new guy, his with her is marked, and if she calls he'll tell her or politely as he can say to her to get lost, no, that it's best they don't see each other, for him, her, in the long run and no explanation if she asks for one, which he doubts she will—she won't, she'll just say all right if that's how he feels or what he wants—but thanks, he'll say, and after he hangs up: but no thanks, you little skunk, none. Goes back to California. Lots of things happen. Writes her care of her parents three years later when he's working for a big systems analysis firm in L. A. doing technical writing. Just to say how are you, been a long time, was thinking of her, what's been happening, curious. Gets a letter from her from some small town in Northern California saying she's been on the coast for a year, thought he might still be in California, wanted to write his old school on the Peninsula but wasn't sure what department or that if she got the right one it'd forward the mail of one of its former grad students, didn't want to ask his mother because of how she's felt about her contacting him, living with a logger/master woodcarver and never been happier: California's a dream state: the ease, people, nature, weather, opportunities and room—she doesn't see how she could live anywhere else. If he's ever around here, stop by; they've a guest cottage Milton built overlooking the ocean and mountains and she'd love showing him the area; though she can no longer stand the East, she still gets a craving for intellectual easterners with something to say, and he might like it so such he'd move up here. Few months later he's flying to San Francisco for a job interview and calls her, thinking he can rent a car and spend a day with her. Man who answers gives him another number to call. She says she got married last month—not to the logger-carver but to someone, if he can believe it, and it was the greatest mistake of her life, she'd only met a few weeks before, and left him a day after the ceremony and is now getting an annulment. She'd rather not see anyone now and once this is over she's driving straight to New York; she's already got a sublet and gives him the address and phone number, years later his first book's reviewed in a New York newspaper; she sends him a letter care of his publisher, congratulating him on the book and being reviewed in such a prestigious place, “even if she impaled and then poleaxed you before dragging your body through the mud—the stinker; imagine doing that to a first book and one, between her lines, that sounds so promising,” asks him to call her if he gets a chance. Calls: she's married, husband's a filmmaker, no kids but they're trying, renting a house in New Jersey, taking courses in botany and library science at a state college nearby, doing volunteer work for the town library which she'll become the paid librarian of once she gets her degree; since she hardly ever gets into the city, invites him for dinner out there. He borrows a car. Her husband's not home when he gets there and they sit on the grass in the backyard, beer and cheese and crackers, she tells him the names of all the trees, flowers and shrubs and even the grass and weeds around the place and what bird and insect sounds they're hearing, he says he always wanted to know things like that and about mushrooms and rocks and how to navigate a boat just by the stars, asks if she's read any good books or new poets or seen any plays lately and she says she ordered his book for the town library but it hasn't arrived yet so she hasn't read it. “Of course I could have ordered it for myself from the bookstore—I looked for it just to browse through but they didn't have it—but the price was a bit steep; we're always short so never buy new hardcovers, even by good friends.” “I should have brought a copy for you and Braxton, but I felt that'd be pushing it on you.” “Good news is there are already six people on the library reserve list for your book—four from my pep talks about you—but since I work there, my name's on top. After I read it I'll give you another review.” “I don't know if it'll be favorable, since one of the pieces is about when our engagement busted up and is pretty close to the original.” “I've been written about before but nobody's come near to getting me the way I see myself. I'd almost write about myself to get it right, but I found out I'm a lousy writer. Anyway, so long as you didn't use my name or my parents' names and disguised me a little—more to show you're just not a reporter—write what you like.” “I forget what I called you. Jackson, and where the reader never knows if that's your first or last name.” Wonders how come she never changes? Face, manner, temperament, same high pointy breasts and tiny waist and bouncy gait and so on, while he's lost most of his hair since they first met, jowls and deep face creases, little heavier and slower but not much, less sensitive and responsive, darker, grimmer, more downbeat a person—almost everyone says so—doesn't try as hard for good fellow-feeling or jokes. Phone rings and she goes to answer it, comes back with more beer for them and sits. For a moment he saw her white panties and he thinks a patch of hair sticking out there; skirt's above her knees; same fuzz on her legs. Braxton, asking her to extend his apologies to him for being late and saying he's leaving the office in half an hour and it takes him, she says, another half-hour to get here. Wants the phone to ring again so she can get up to answer it and then sit down opposite him again so he can again see her panties. What if, no this is ridiculous. But what if she said now, though she's given and is giving no sign of it, “You think we can quickly make love?” Of course saying something a little before it. “You're probably not going to like this idea, Howard…” “You wouldn't believe what I've been thinking, Howard…” He'd do it, is sure of it, since almost all he can think about now is putting his lips on her lips and then on her legs. After, he'd say to himself he's such a bastard, she's the only married woman he'd do it with who's trying to get pregnant by her husband. He'd carry on with her in the city if she wanted, and for as long as she wanted, but always asking her to divorce Braxton before she gets pregnant by one of them—he wouldn't want any doubt as to whose kid it is—and marry him. She did get pregnant and wasn't sure whose it was but wanted to marry him, he'd say to get rid of it or prove through some tests it's his. She didn't want to get married but wanted to have the baby one of them had got her pregnant with, he'd have to assume it was Braxton's or if it wasn't that Braxton would be the father to it, and that would probably be the end of their relationship. Braxton's nice, polite, tall, broad shoulders, build of an ex-college swimmer, big mop of hair, plain-looking, little fat in the face, pinholes on the nose, pants keep sliding down because he has no behind, quiet—maybe because Howard's there and been so talkative—not very intelligent, it seems, though maybe he's holding back there too. But one knows: way he responds, lack of questions, choice of words, things he picks to discuss, flat expression, nothing in the eyes; it's surely what he'd like to believe. They seem close. Howard and she were inside by then and she rushed to the door when he came in and kissed him; before that, when she heard a car pulling up in front, she said “That's Brax, I recognize the muffler,” and beamed, looked out the window, stopped their conversation cold. Braxton likes to skydive—“That's his biggest passion,” she said; “we take vacations around it”—water-ski, rock climb, camp out, snorkel, chop logs into kindling, takes boxing lessons, used to fence, his reading's mostly work research and magazines about these things. “Do you play chess?” she said in the backyard;
“I
forget, but if you do I bet he'd love to whip through a couple of games after dinner.” Go; “he's become something of a master at that game too.” Writes and shoots industrial films and commercials for a New Jersey company but hopes to do serious filmmaking in the future. “Maybe you and Howard can team up on one of his stories or unpublished books.” “You never know,” Braxton says, “but it's got to be something you can play in—I've never seen her in anything, so I want to get her back into acting one last time.” “I've lots of things for women; mostly, though they're all pretty intriguing, they're not very nice.” She tried skydiving once, she said; got so frightened that she felt she experienced death. “I saw myself splattering on the ground and everything after that, even my funeral, while coming down.” “Was I at it?” Howard said. “Just faces and my family and Braxton, but it was just one of many things, so very quick.” “It was a stupid question to begin with; I wasn't being serious, though the thought of it makes me shudder.” She patted his knee. The house is small, simple, comfortable, but lots of art work she acquired when working in the gallery years before, some of it the painter's. One of her by him, he thinks, frontal nude, but doesn't ask and tries to keep from constantly looking back at it. If it were in the gallery or a museum and nobody was around he'd go right up to it to get a close look at the face and genital area. They have dinner. Time to shut up, ask a lot of questions that'll take time to answer and just listen. At least stop trying to impress her, which he knows he's been doing—“Publishing is an eleemosynary venture when it comes to my works…. The next book, which I've already got my advance for, promises to do even worse”—and by contrast trying to make Braxton look bad. It's hopeless and wrong. “How come so suddenly silent?” she says. “My food no good and you don't want to say?” “No, you're the same great cook. Could be I drank too much beer in the sun and I've also been working late a lot, so I'm tired and should probably go while I can still drive.” They insist he stay the night; they don't want him cracking up on the road. They give him the guest room, which will be the baby's room, she says, “that is, if we ever have one.” “Sure we will,” Braxton says. “Three, four if you want—We've gone in for tests, everything's clear, count's up to par, the doctor says it's a shoo-in—so don't be surprised if you're carrying in a year.” “I know, and one at a time please, sweetie—Braxton's family's noted for its twins and triplets every third conception. Both his sister and brother and also his parents with the three of them.” “Triplets? Jesus, I've never met anybody who was one,” and is sorry he didn't know sooner because he'd like to hear about it. They share a common wall. He listens through it—then his ear flat against it with his hand over his other ear—but only hears mumbling for speech, the word “filibuster” from Braxton very loud, a light switch clicking on and off several times, no sex sounds. He shakes his penis a little, thinks he should do it into his handkerchief—maybe there's even some good cheesecake in the magazines on the shelves above him—then thinks he'd only be doing it to say to himself he did it in their house, and goes to sleep. He has a quick dream of her coming into the room in a nightgown and holding a towel, sitting on the bed and jostling him awake: “Up, you up?” That was inevitable, he thinks, and wishes it had gone on longer. He goes to the bathroom late at night, when he comes back stands in front of their door thinking of them sleeping close, maybe a little entangled, after probably having made quiet sex—all the talk of conception and semen might have led to it or maybe they try doing it every night to up the chances of them conceiving. “Lucky fucking stiff,” he whispers, low. Braxton's gone by the time he washes up in the morning and goes into the kitchen for coffee. She's reading the paper there, in her bathrobe. They talk a little more and then he kisses her cheek, hopes they can do this again some time, she says “Without doubt we will. Braxton really liked you, thought you a very stimulating person and would like to get to know you better.” “I liked him very much too,” and goes. That's the last time he sees her. Neither calls or writes again. Bumps into an actor friend of hers from when they first met who says he still speaks to her about twice a year and was out to her house a year ago; she and Braxton have two children and decided that'll be it, though he wants more. Braxton's still making industrial films and television ads but owns his own company; she's a language arts teacher in a private school and writing children's books, but none have sold so far and she's done about a dozen. “She read me one; about a horse and a cow who get married because of some dumb farmer's blunder; it was hilarious and ends with them producing some animal called a how.” He'll give her Howard's regards next time he speaks to her, whenever that'll be. The gallery she worked at is having a twentieth anniversary party. He knows a woman—met and became friends with her at an art colony he went to that summer—who's represented by the gallery and she told him about the party. “Look out for a beautiful blonde woman named Janine. Maybe not as blonde and beautiful anymore, I'm sure lovely features still, an intelligent kind of dignified look, and about so high. She used to work there—receptionist, hanging up paintings, writing some of the catalogs—fifteen years ago—but became close friends with the owner, even stayed at her apartment when she couldn't afford a room or was between this place and that lover, and long weekends at her beach house, so I'm sure she'll be there. Last name was Austin but now it's Jameson or Jimson or Johnson—her husband's first name is Braxton—and I only remember one of those was her last name or something like it when I read an obit of her father last year and it gave that name as one of the deceased.” The woman says “Maybe you'd like to go; I'm sure I can bring more than one friend,” and he says “Nah, I don't know if I want to see her again like that—wangling an invitation. And I hate gallery parties; jug wines in fancy carafes and no chairs, and how would I tell it to Denise—that I'm going to a party where I'm almost sure to see an old girlfriend, love of my life till I met her?” The woman reports back to him. She did see a beautiful blonde woman, in her early forties but looked ten years younger, “asked about her, was told her name was Janine, went up to her and said I knew you. She was immediately all interest; asked me questions about you for an hour. In fact most of my talking time there I spent with her and was taken up by you. What are you doing? How do you support yourself? What do you look like? Where do you live? Is your mother still alive? Are you married or have you been since she last saw you and do you have any children?—somehow she felt you would by now, in or out of marriage. What's my relationship to you? When I said ‘friend' she gave me this double take, for she didn't think you could ever know a single attractive woman long, as she put it, and just be friends. ‘Well, he's changed—people do,' she said, and then she asked what's the woman like who you are involved with. She said you two were once engaged, but so many years ago that she forgets when. You never told me that. And that you were on and off with one another for a while after that, and much in love as she was with you at times, it never seemed to work out. She obviously has a high impression of your intelligence and talent and character and thinks you were the nicest man she ever was close with, other than her husband, who wasn't there, by the way, or never came over to her while we talked, and she never looked around for him. Never for no one, in fact. She wasn't one of those people at parties who are always darting their eyes about while you're talking to them or standing with their backs to the wall so they can see everyone and be seen by everyone too. That says a great deal about her. When I told her of all you've written and also got published lately, she said she was going out the next day to buy everything of yours she could. That she hadn't known you had stuck with it, but didn't see why you wouldn't, and what are some of the book titles and so on? I couldn't remember one, not even the newest. But you know me; I've little to nil interest in books except for the art ones and if I did ever read one of yours I probably wouldn't understand or like it, which is possibly why we stay friends—that I only talk about the covers.” “What's she doing—she say?” “I think teaching. Or maybe she said she's the principal of an all-girls' school, or dean, or in admissions—head of it or assistant to head. I'm sorry, I forget. Also some artwork too, she's doing—besides devoting lots of time to her children, of course—which she seemed too embarrassed to talk about, the art, maybe because I'm a professional painter and she thought it presumptuous talking to me of it. I should have pursued it because I knew you would have wanted to know what exactly in art she was in.” He wanted to ask about her hair, what style was it in and the color, but that would have sounded funny and he didn't quite know how to phrase it, though he tried a few times in his head. And her body—was it still slim, with that tiny waist and strong legs, and energetic, or had it grown, got a little fleshy and slowed down? but he's sure she would have said something like “You men—only interested in our bods, or mostly, and after we reach a certain age, go for the younger flesh and throw us away; I hate that,” and not answered it. Also what she smelled like—from the carnation soap she was famous to him for? Doesn't remember even thinking of it last time he saw her, and forgets if it was in the bathroom of their house when he slept over? If it was, wouldn't he have thought of it then? He doesn't know. But he does remember that every time he did smell it—at her place or someone else's—after he hadn't seen her for a while, he thought of the smell and of her. But what's he talking about? That soap wouldn't smell on a person an hour or so after she washed herself with it; it's perfume he's thinking of, which he doesn't think she ever used, and it's someone else he's thinking of who always had on one particular identifying kind. He says “Did she show you any pictures of her kids or say what sex they were or how old?” and she says “No, only that she has them; two, but I said that. What else about her? Nothing, except that she's a lovely woman in every way. I felt immediately at ease and in rapport with her and could see myself becoming good friends with her if I had the chance, and of course why you were so attracted to her.” “In love with her. I could have killed myself over her. I think I almost did once. No, that was over someone else, much earlier on.” “Well, you were young, with her and all of them before her, and since no person's worth killing yourself over, good thing you didn't.”