Frog (62 page)

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How to start? Have a drink. How to start. Paper in and think. How-to start. Sit and type. Coffee and write. Kid and man. Fart and art. When I was a teen. Breakfast, dinner and dread. What's he mean? What's it seem? Done before. Start again.

Takes his daughter to school, goes home. Wife's on the phone. “Yes, no, OK, maybe,” hangs up. “Oh, it's you. I'm afraid I have bad news for you. I'm afraid I have sad news for you. I'm afraid I have mad dad news for you. Are you ready? Get set.” How about one about growing sick and old? Over again.

Takes his daughter home, goes to school. Student's waiting at his office. “You said you'd be here by three-fifteen—that's what the sign on your door says too—but I've never in my three years here known a teacher to keep his posted office hours.” “Not true. I was late for a good reason. Are you ready? Well get set. My daughter took seriously ill. Do you feel better now? We had to rush her to the doctor—I did. My wife's also seriously ill. Besides that, my mother broke her hip yesterday and had to have a pin put in it today and my other daughter's recovering from chicken pox. Add all that up plus my continuing inability to adjust to my brother's drowning close to thirty years ago and my sister's slow disease and death more than twenty years ago and taking care of my invalided dad the last six years of his life and probably also the loss of my one and only dog when I was around eight and the only tricycle or bike I ever owned stolen from in front of the candy store when I was inside buying a vanilla cone and what you got is hard knocks.” Over.

At home, daughters in school, in the basement typing, wife in their bedroom writing, hears a sound behind him, jumps, yells “Whoosh,” just his wife halfway downstairs barefoot, smile, untied bathrobe, towel over her shoulder, hair hung loose and in her hand shampoo, “I was about to shower when I thought…” “Why not, though you scared the hell out of me, as I was deep into doing a new scene, but I can always go back to it, and I usually gain more than I lose when I do—material, distance, be right there,” pushes the chair back, hands on the chair arms to stand up, she says “You don't have to get up if you don't have to. Just pull your pants down and we can do it in the chair, and it's the right time of the month so though I might need some fiddling around with I don't have to prepare.”

At home, daughter's in school, wife away for the weekend with her folks, baby with her, cats in the attic, dog's in the manger, horses in the stalls, pigs building brick shithouses, cows coming home. “Mumma, Dooda, plead bleed to me, you neber read to me, or I want you with me to clay.” Continues to read a book (she), dental journal (he). Goes to his room, lies on his bed, stares at the side wall of the brownstone right outside. City noises: garbage truck, street being dug up, when suddenly a plane, gets louder, seems lower than just overhead, runs to the window, sees it crashing through all the backyards before nosediving into their living room.

Home, he is, everybody's left, school, work, cats are dead, no dog, farm animals, he's trying to work, phone rings, rushes upstairs. “Yes,” he says. Picks up the receiver. “Yes,” says into it. “‘Ello, George?” man says. “No George here I'm afraid.” “You afraid? What for?” “Done that one. Say something else.” “George, George, that you there?” “Yes, George, everything's George, I'm alone at home, for the next three hours completely free, so I can do what I want. But remember that expression from about twenty years back? Thirty perhaps? Are you as old as you sound, meaning my age? Everything's George, meaning all's OK.” “What're you, coming apart, man?” “What number did you say you want? George did you want did you say?” New page.

Basement typing. Cats somewhere around the house biting. Children, wife, have none. Little fat dog jumped over the big bovine's balls. Fiddle moon man leaped over the lilywhite dam. What's that, dream? You believe in free thinking or free-associating or free living or love? Answer one or column four. Waiter, I'd like a Peking duck made in Beijing. Or the Beijing muck made sing-a-ling-ching. What're yuh, green? But what a news day. Old evil eyes flies, Polish star dies, tangled tykes in mangled bikes, tanks over tents—rhythm and rhyme over reason—all that fall, break. Can you get all that in less than twelve hours' notice? Picks up the typewriter and drops it. Read the other day that typewriter repairmen can fix anything but the carnage. The carriage. Once the carnage breaks, throw the machine away. Goes upstairs, stops halfway and stares at the wall.

At school, class comes in. They're quiet, some smile, few shuffle their papers on the long oblong table. “Well, how are you all today?” ‘Just fine thanks, I guess,” young man says. “Don't guess, say straight out.” “OK, just fine thanks… I guess.” Several laugh. “That's the spirit. Well, now down to business, shall we say?” “Sure, what's the first order?” young woman says. “Yes. Order. Give me three in column A and the rest of you get F's.” All laugh. Lifts the table at his end. “Hey, my books, Doctor,” someone says. “Call me Howard, or Mr. Tetch, if you can't call me by my first name. Or even Teach, or Mr. Teach, but I've told you—in my family my father was the doctor, though a dentist. ‘Open, open wide, wider, it won't hurt but for an hour.' I won't even tell you how he took care of my teeth. Now that's a story. No x-rays or novocaine, but he scrub-brushed his hands before—they always smelled of soap—and lots of pain.” Lifts it higher till it stands on its end. Everything on it slides off. “What the fuck he think he's doing?” someone says. “What's this, we're supposed to write an exercise about it?” someone says. “One on professorial craziness,” someone says. “Pedagogical patheticness,” someone says. “Doctorial, if that's what the word is, dottiness,” someone says. “No, just a man coming apart, or do one on teeth. Bring it in next week, three to five pages, class dismissed,” and he sits, hands over his face till he thinks they've all left, says to himself out loud “If this is what's called having a fit, I'm having it.” “I'll stay with you,” only student who stayed says, prettiest he's ever had in a class, Lucy, Lisa, Lois, something, long blond this, strong lean that, tall, small, broad, flat. Another he's stared at in the hallway from behind till she disappeared, then looked around to see if anyone caught him. “I'm certain you were only trying to tell us something by what you did, like our lack of basic writing skills and interest in serious culture, and our poor critical sense, and I love your work.” “Always?” “Hard to say, since I don't know if it'll always be as good.” “Heck with my work. I meant will you stay with me always, at least the way you and your contemporaries might understand that word.” “Line-byline edit me if you like, sir, but isn't that what I just said?” “I don't know. I can't think. I've never been good at following conversations. People speak, I'm dreaming or wondering about something else. It even happens at movies—what's being said on the screen—so imagine me in lecture halls. You can see now what I meant when I said in class I was such a lousy student. And to top it off, my folks argued bitterly when I was a boy, for years I thought they were going to divorce and all the kids would be split up, a brother died when he'd been my best pal for more than twenty years, my sister went through hell dying before she managed to pull it off while I was sitting there right by her bed, and my wife's recently flown and I always have to be at home by the phone for my kids. Please,” his arms and lips out to kiss, but she shakes her head, “Nothing like an old fool,” she says and leaves the room. ‘That's what my mother also used to say. Not about me, of course, since when she said it I was a kid, and her exact words were ‘No fool like an old fool,' but OK. Though old fools can be good. Ones I'm thinking of know what to do, don't ask for much, are thankful for whatever you give, have a little income, sense of humor, and nobody appreciates a young mind and body better, I'll tell ya. But I can see it your way too.”

On the street, walking the dog. Has no dog but imagines he's one. Has one. Woman passes. “Nice dog you have there,” he says. “Nice dog you have too. What's its name?” “Airedale,” he says. “But he's no Airedale.” “I always wanted one, my father would never let me have one, now that I'm old enough and on my own to have one I have no money to buy one, so decided to call him that. Actually, I did have an Airedale once. Part. Do you have time to listen? We lost him when I was a boy. It's a sad bad mad dad story. Actually, he lost him. Wanted to get rid of him so gave him to a friend to get rid of but told us he'd run away. The dog did. I shared him with my two brothers and sister, you see, but he was really me. Mine. Since I took care of him for the most part. The hind part. What's your daddy's name?” “My doggy's? Scott.” “For Scottie? But he's no Scottie. Course he is. Only kissing. Kidding. Excuse me.” Puts his lips and arms out. “You wouldn't want to, would you?” “Won't your doggy run away?” she says. “Right. So what happens? Happened? Just that for a moment he looked big for a Scottie, that's what I meant when I said he wasn't one. I have a Scottie too, so to speak. A nephew named one. Scott. He's not a Scot though. He's a Litvak, or would be one if he'd been born where all his great-grandparents were born, or is that the other thing?” “What other thing?” “Litvaks always go with something else. One steals horses, the other owns them. That's what my dad used to say and sometimes used to say his dad used to say it. People who have heard it would know what I mean and which one does what and possibly what's the other's name. I was also never very good in school at explaining what I mean. What's your name?” “Scott.” “Come on.” “Sarah.” “With two
t
's or one?” “Sarah. Two
t
's.” “I did have a dog. We all shared my dad. But you can't say—I know you're not saying—that losing a dog at the time you lose it would have to take second place to losing a dad, that is, if you're a kid. But I had to do the dirty work the last six years with him. Not had to. Did. Holding his prick inside the urinal for his piss, cleaning up his shit, taking his anger because he hated being so helpless and sick. Those things can scare. Scar. But you're going. Gone. I've probably nothing more to say anyway and if you do I'm sure it's not to me. Story of my life? And how could we, since you're already down the street. Say, nice dog you have there, lady. What's its breed? Is it on special formula diet? Has it been spayed or fixed? Does it get enough exercise a day and at least fifteen minutes of it free run? Is there a Scottie newsletter as there is for Airedales? Quite the society we live in, right? More news than noses. Everything you never wanted and then some and not only what money can't buy. And I didn't even get to ask its name. His.”

He's walking his cat. Cat walks beside him. He stops, cat does. His wife used to do that when they had four cats. Before she was his wife. When she could still walk like that. Long walks with the four cats, all originally hers. They'd take them to Maine for the summer in two pet carriers, mother and son in one, sisters of these triplets in the other. They'd meow the whole way if a window was open or the side vents were opened wide or vent blower was on high or when a big truck or bus passed. Then they'd howl. “Can't you shut them up?” he'd periodically say. “It's disturbing my driving.” And under his breath, sometimes she heard or some of it and would say “What?” or “Speak up,” he'd say “Gas them, for Christsakes,” or “If it was up to me I'd throw the dumb assholes out the window.” They had to stop every two hours or so so the cats could use the litter box. Siamese. She walked them to the beach and along it and back. Up there,
shore
. They walked single file. Wife first, before she was his wife, when she was able to walk like that. Son second, sisters after him, mother last. He'd watch them go and come back from his workroom window. Sometimes when she saw him she held up the mother cat and waved her paw at him. He waved back once, another time stood up and made a sweeping bow to the cat, but usually he just sat there looking at them, no expression change. He wonders what she thought of that then. If any of the cats lagged behind, she'd whistle and they'd run, mother not so fast, and if the son stopped short and quickly turned around in a crouch to hiss at the others, one of the sisters—one who wasn't going blind and was always second in line—would race straight toward him and at the last instant leap over him, sending him scurrying. She also walked to the top of their road, they'd follow, single file, and sometimes along the town road a short while. When a car came they dashed into the bushes, only came out when she called them by name and they'd resume walking, same single file. Then she walked three of them, when the son died. Two, when the mother died. But much slower now, not so far, not down to the water, up to the road, but just around the grounds. Sometimes she fell or couldn't go any farther or was too tired to and she'd call him and he'd run out and help her back to the house, cats behind or beside them, no particular order. A few times he heard her but didn't want to lose what he was working on so didn't respond. She later said she fell before, couldn't get up for a while, or couldn't move another inch—her legs suddenly stiffened or collapsed on her or there were these terrific spasms—and called him, several times, she supposed he didn't hear because he was in the toilet or showering or out back or down by the water, managed to get herself up, but it was a struggle, and back to the house, which took all the energy she had left and so much time. He'd say he was at one of those places she mentioned, or would make up another one—the heat, so without even knowing it he fell asleep at his desk, or stomach cramps, he heard her but was flat on his back in bed and couldn't for the life of him get up or even yell—and was sorry he hadn't been there to help. There's only one cat now. One walking beside him. She's blind, walks into things a lot, they step on her tail or push the chair back on it more often than they used to, so maybe her hearing's also bad, uses its whiskers and bumping head to tell where it is and what's in front of it when it wants to get around. His wife doesn't walk with it much anymore and when she does it's with two canes or a walker. ‘The lame leading the blind,” she's said, “or the crippled or impotent or useless or whatever you want to call it. The washout.” But she's glad he walks with the cat, since it's getting some exercise and fresh air and she doesn't like it outside unless someone's with her. There are coyotes, bears, hawks.