The Night I Got Lucky (16 page)

“I see.” She smoothed her already sleek bob with her hand. “Bil y, I should also mention something—and this is just for you to tuck away in case you need it later—but there are a number of top-of-the-line inpatient facilities in the city for people who just need a break from everyday stress.”

“Inpatient?” I began coughing. “You want to hospitalize me?”

“I’m just naming some options.”

I stood from the couch. “Thank you for your time, but a better option is for me to just get out of here.”

T
he next day, I sat at my desk stewing, the door closed. How could Blinda give me the frog and then take off ? It was like giving someone a bal istic missile without the owner’s manual.

I clicked on the Internet and spent an entirely useless fifty minutes searching Google for
jade green frog
and
wish fulfillment
and
Chinese prophecy.
I got a whole lot of nada.

Lizbeth buzzed me. “Evan is looking for you.”

I drew in a fast breath. Evan had been looking for me for nearly a week now, and I’d managed to avoid him by getting in early, leaving late and keeping my door closed. Yet I could feel him; I remembered those kisses. The memories made me hate myself.

“Tel him I’l cal him,” I said.

I hit the off button and sat back in my butter-yel ow chair. (At least I loved my chair.) How odd that I should be putting off the great Evan, the Everlasting Crush. Yet the thought brought me no triumph, only a reverie that led me back to Blinda and the frog.

Suddenly, I struck on a thought. I sat up in my chair, my feet pushed to the ground, as if I might leap and run.

If indeed the damned frog had given me what I wished for—and it certainly seemed that way—then couldn’t I just get rid of the frog and get rid of everything that had happened? I’m not sure where I got this idea, but it seemed intuitively correct—lose the frog and lose the wish fulfil ment, too. Then I could start over, wherever that start-over point was, and make it al okay.

I needed to go back to that place where I didn’t get what I wanted simply because I’d wished it to a therapist and a frog. I needed free wil in my life again. I needed everyone else to have free wil , too. I didn’t want Chris to love me (or Evan to lust after me) only because I’d wished it so. I didn’t want the promotion because I’d pined for it; I wanted to deserve it. And my mom? Wel , I did like my mother having her own life, but again, wasn’t that simply because I’d hoped it into existence, the way I’d hoped for the dispel ing of my father from my mind? The frog had brought what I’d wanted, at least as I’d thought I’d wanted it, but without the ability of others to choose for themselves.

And of course, the things I’d wanted weren’t faultless. They each brought their own problems that were, in many ways, much trickier than the problems I’d had before. If I could just rewind and do it al the old-fashioned way—take action, make choices, let everyone else do the same—I would look more closely to see what I
really
wanted. And I’d handle achievement better when it came my way.

The conclusion was clear. I stood now, fighting back the urge to raise a determined fist in the empty confines of my office.

I had to destroy the frog. I had to kil it. Period.

I went straight home and marched to my bedroom. I moved aside the alarm clock and the novels on my nightstand and stood staring at the frog as if it were a four-hundred-pound goril a, rather than a scrap of faux jade.

“Time for you to go,” I said out loud. I was inexplicably nervous.

I reached out hesitantly, as if it might bite me. I snatched the thing in one quick movement, closing my fist around it. I held it tight and carried it to the kitchen, where I dropped it in our kitchen garbage can. That hardly seemed final enough, so I fastened the bag with a twist-tie and took it outside.

The Dumpster behind the condo was large, gray and battered. I lifted the heavy metal top and dropped the bag inside. When I let the top go, it slammed closed like a prison door. A perfect resting place. I almost felt as if I should bow my head, maybe mumble a few words as if at a burial, but right then one of the other condo members, a man in his mid-sixties, came by with his own garbage bag.

“Hel o!” he said jovial y. “Nasty weather, huh?”

I glanced around. I had been so concerned with the frog that I’d hardly noticed the weather. Sure enough, the skies were foggy and ominous, the air a chil y fifty degrees. “Nasty, yeah,” I said.

I went to turn away, but then the man raised his arm to lift the Dumpster lid. I felt an irrational fear as he did so. “Oh, don’t…” I said, moving toward him.

The man froze, the top already a few inches up now. “What’s that?” he said, looking at me strangely. He kept hoisting the lid, and I felt the breath catch in my lungs. What I was afraid of, I didn’t know. Nothing happened. He threw his bag on top of the others and let the lid fal with a satisfying clang.

“I was just saying have a great day,” I said.

“You, too.”

I trotted back to my condo. I looked around trying to feel the shift that must be happening now that I’d gotten rid of the frog.

The next morning, I was awoken by a nudge. When I blinked my eyes open, Chris was standing over me with a tray. “I made you breakfast,” he said. “And you’re going in late today, because I have plans for us.” He gave me a lascivious wink.

I coughed. “Oh, honey. That’s so nice, but I can’t be late, and I’ve told you I real y, real y don’t like breakfast.”

“Sure you do.” He nudged me some more with his knee. “Scoot.”

I moved over and sat up. I sensed something, as if someone were in the room with us.

With trepidation, I turned my head ever so slowly toward the nightstand. And my eyes came to rest on something little. Something green.

“Chris!” I said, scrambling into a kneeling position. “Did you take that out of the garbage?”

“Whoa!” Chris said, holding tight to the tray to stop the food from sliding. “Don’t be rude. I made these eggs myself.”

“Not the eggs,” I huffed. “That!” I pointed at the nightstand.

“That frog has been there for weeks,” Chris said.

“But I threw it away yesterday.”

“Why?” His face creased in a confused frown.

“It doesn’t matter why. Did you dig it out of the Dumpster?”

“No.” He laughed.

“Wel , then how did it get here?”

He shrugged. “Maybe you meant to throw it away, but you forgot.”

“I did
not
forget. I threw it away after work. How did it get out?”

Chris laughed again. “My wife has gone crazy.”

That day, I left my office early and hurried to the elevator with purpose. The doors opened, and there stood Evan. Instead of exiting, he waved an arm as if inviting me into a party.

Another one.

“Aren’t you getting out?” I said.

“Not now.” He grinned.

“Wel …” I stood there, unsure, not trusting myself. The doors began to slide shut. Evan stuck his arm out to stop them, then grabbed my hand and pul ed me inside.

“How are you?” he said. Normal words, casual words, but his voice was low and deep, and his hand stil held mine.

I pul ed it away. “Fine, thank you. You?”

“What’s with the formalities?”

I couldn’t think of an answer.

“Are you leaving for the day?” he asked.

I nodded.

“I’l go with you.”

“No, Ev. You can’t. I can’t.”

Ignoring me, he moved closer. “We’l pick up from where we left off last week.” He put one arm on the wal behind me. My mouth went dry. I licked my lips, which Evan seemed to interpret as a come-on. His eyes closed and his mouth parted. He leaned toward me.

“Goddamned frog!” I said.

His eyes shot open. “What?”

“Sorry. Nothing.” I wriggled out from under his arm, just as the elevator reached the lobby. “Got to go.” I darted through the lobby and onto Michigan Avenue before he could stop me.

When I reached my condo, I asked the cab driver to wait. With the sense of purpose back in my step, I went straight to the bedroom and grabbed the frog. I was no longer scared of it; I was sick of it.

“Can you take me to North Avenue Beach?” I asked the cab driver.

“Whatever you want.”

I jumped out when the cab pul ed behind the beachside restaurant, and I walked to the wide sidewalk edging the lake. The weather was beautiful again, and joggers, bicyclists and in-line skaters jockeyed for space. A few eager souls were lying in bathing suits on the smooth sand. The lake was teal-blue and calm. I joined the crowds on the sidewalk and headed for the cement pier that would take me directly over the lake. I walked to the very end. A lone fisherman sat there, his chin tucked into his chest, dozing.

I slid my hand in my pocket and took out the frog. Without looking at it, I ran my hand over the little bumps on its back, the rounded haunches. I was slightly more mel ow now that I was surrounded by Lake Michigan. The frog wasn’t a bad thing, I thought, just something that needed to go. Its time with me was over.

I stared down at the lake, too deep to see the bottom. I turned and looked across the expanse of it. Indiana and Michigan were somewhere over there, but this lake was large enough to hide them. Was it big enough to hide a little frog and keep it hidden?

With one movement, I drew my shoulder back, imagining myself as a basebal pitcher, and with a whip of my arm, I launched the frog. It sailed about thirty feet, making a beautiful streak of green across the pale blue sky, before it landed with a smooth
plunk,
barely causing a ripple.

“You little fucker.”

“Hmm?” Chris said, and rol ed over.

I stood up from the bed and crossed my arms, looking at the nightstand. It was back. The damned thing was
back.
“How did you get out of the lake?”

“What?” Chris said.

I grabbed the frog, along with the cordless phone, and took them into the bathroom. I set the frog on the counter, facing it away, but the reflection of its eyes stil stared at me from the mirror. I dialed Blinda’s number. I knew it by heart from al the times I’d tried it. Again, that same damned message with that same musical voice of hers—
I’m out of the office for a while.

“Goddamn it!” I yel ed.

“You okay?” I heard Chris say from behind the door.

“Fine,” I cal ed back, but I then muttered again, “you little fucker.”

I swiveled the frog around and studied it, as if it would give me the answer on how to properly execute it. Its slash of a mouth looked wider, its tiny face more pleased. I would have to try harder. I
would
kil this thing.

I took the frog to Lincoln Park Zoo. When no one was looking, I lobbed it into the corral with the elephants, smiling at the thought of those massive gray feet squashing the crap out of that little green amphibian.

The next morning, it was back on my nightstand.

I took it on the El platform, and threw it under the tracks before the train passed.

The next morning, it was back on my nightstand.

The day after my El trip, I left the office at lunch and went straight to the Art Institute, patting the lion at the top. I’d been to the Institute when the bizarreness started a few weeks ago, and although the ancient loveliness of the paintings and artifacts hadn’t helped erase my worries then, it was worth trying again. A jittery dread had taken over my body, a feeling of moving on a predetermined highway from which there was no exit.

It was a Friday, so the museum was fairly crowded. Instead of heading for the busier rooms, I slipped in the Chinese/Japanese hal , which I usual y overlooked. But today I felt pul ed inside, as if something was waiting for me. And it was. At the back of the room, next to a thin jade vase was a tiny, wide-mouthed frog the size of a nickel, also made of jade. It looked precisely like
my
frog—there was the lily pad beneath the frog’s rounded legs; his mouth was a long slash that ran under the eyes. I peered closer, my arms behind my back. Near the frog’s case was a white printed card that read
Shang Dynasty 1700 B.C.—1050 B.C. Originally part of a pair, the frog-on-lily icons were initially said to have brought great fortune to
the dynasty. After disaster befell many family members, it was believed the frogs had brought about ruin.

I stepped back from the card as if shocked with a cattle prod.
Ruin,
I thought. A powerful word that seemed to signify volcanoes and locusts and mayhem. Was that what would become of me if I held on to the frog? Ruin? And was it possible that my frog was somehow the other side of the pair?

I swiveled around and marched through the hal s until I found the administrative offices for the Institute.

“May I see the curator?” I said to the receptionist, a woman about my age.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but it’s important. I have something to donate.”

“Are you from an organization?”

“No, I’m…a private col ector.” I liked it as soon as I said it.
A private collector.
It made me sound worldly and learned, like someone who’d just hopped off a private plane from a dig in Egypt. I was glad I was wearing a suit.

“Your name?”

“Bil y Rendal .”

“Wil you wait a moment?” She gestured to two chairs upholstered in tan brocade.

“Certainly.” I didn’t usual y say “certainly,” but it seemed a word that a private col ector would certainly use.

A few minutes later, the receptionist was back with a smal , balding man, wearing round copper glasses and an il -fitting pinstripe suit. “Ms. Rendal ,” he said, shaking my hand. “I’m Charles Topper, an assistant curator here. Wil you fol ow me?”

In his office, which, strangely, lacked art or decoration, Charles Topper got right to business. “What can I do for you?” he said, when he’d taken his chair behind his desk.

I squirmed to sit higher in the leather chair. Now that I was here, how to say this? “I believe I have something to donate to the Institute. I believe it dates back to the Shang dynasty.”

Mr. Topper’s eyes grew large. “Is that right? Wel , that’s fantastic. May I ask how you acquired this piece?”