Frog (64 page)

In a car with Dora. Hers, she's driving, they're arguing. They argued on and off for their five years. The first few weeks were great, maybe a couple of months, love, when they walked they stopped to kiss on almost every block, after that, intermittently nice, now-and-then passion, but lots of fights, always reconciling. Lived with her for two years, wanted to marry her and have a child, she didn't want to have another baby but he thought if she married him he'd eventually convince her to, she got pregnant, wanted an abortion, he didn't want her to, reasoned with her, begged her, threatened to hole her up in their apartment for months, tether her to the bed when he went out, keep her tied up and gagged in a closet if he had to, releasing her only when it was too late for her to abort and too dangerous for her to induce a miscarriage. He wanted a child, he wanted their child—all this was taking place in the car on the Taconic Parkway to her parents' home upstate—and he'd do anything for her if she had it and married him, or she didn't have to marry him (when she gave him a look), just have it but continue living with him, or not even that, have it but also have her own apartment if she wants, one they have now or a smaller one, don't ask where he'll come up with the money for two flats but he'll get it, he'll work doubly hard, doing any kind of job, more bartending, waiting on tables when he wasn't bartending, cleaning up the restaurant's kitchen after closing for more pay, plus living like a slob to keep his own expenses down, so long as she'd let him see his kid whenever he wanted, or just weekends, month in the summer, during the week a little, he'd never leave the city while his kid was in it and if she moved away he'd follow her just to be near it though he'd never be a nuisance to her, he'd even babysit it while she went out with men, here or in any other city, while she even stayed out all night with them, that is if she was absolutely adamant about not marrying him or continuing to live with him or even seeing and sleeping with him after she had the baby. She said “Really, that's nice of you, and all that might be a great deal for someone else, but it's simply not the right time for me to have a baby.” “It's never the right time for you with anything,” he said. “That could be true, and try to hold your voice down; you know it distracts my driving. Anyway, unlike you, I already have a child, so there's no urgency for me to have this one, and now that she's in school I can finally find some time for myself. I want to get a good-paying profession, not these pimply demeaning jobs all my life where I can't save a dollar.” “You can have all the time you want if you have the baby. I'll keep us just fine, in one place or two, for a couple of years. Then, go out, study, work, anything—I'll help cover whatever education or babysitting you think you need. Or start studying while you're still at home, taking breaks from baby work. Or stay with the baby for just a year after it's born—half a year if that's all you want. It's not what I'd choose for it but I'll spring for the day care too. I'll borrow from my mother, even, or my brother—they'll give for something I want or think as important as this. Or I'll both work and take care of the kid whenever you need me to so you can study and work and get jobs and go out with men and do whatever you feel like. I'll even keep the baby myself—I'd love to. Bring it up from day one if I have to—all alone; you can be anywhere you want. Visit it or be with it whenever you like too. Weekends, month in the summer; two months—I won't need long stretches in the summer with it since I'll have been with it the rest of the year.” “Stop talking crazy. My decision's final. Abortion's on Tuesday. I'm not putting if off for anything. I can't put it off—it can only be done the first trimester and I'm coming to the end of mine.” “I want the baby. It's mine as much as yours. Just because it's in you doesn't mean you own it. I love you and I'll love it and I want our baby. Please,” crying, “please,” banging his lap, the car seat, she said “No tantrums, talk calmly, you'll knock us off the road.” “Listen, I'll be a good father—” “I know, I know, you've been wonderful to Gretchen. We both love you for it but I don't personally love you enough to marry you now and I'd only have another baby if I were married and I'll probably never marry you. We should in fact probably end this thing of ours for good, because it won't work out. It's not. We knew it almost from the start so why were we so stupid to carry it this far? It simply wasn't the right time for it, no matter how much you hate that word, and with marriage and babies timing and right moves based on rational and right decisions are everything, and you got me two weeks after I left my husband.” ‘Two months.” “A month then. But on the rebound. Not the first man I slept with after him but first I got serious with. But now we've got to believe all that's finished. That's almost a must. Better you get your own place and move out and I'll take care of myself.” “Please, I'll change. Whatever you might think wrong with me and us—a total transformation. I know I've said that before, but being parents this time will do it.” “Oh shit, shut up about that already.” “But it will. Your attitude and feelings to one another—your mate, your wife, everything's strengthened.” “Or weakened. Or they kill each other.” “Not us. And you'll never see a father like me. You think all men will be fathers like Lewis was to Gretchen.” “Not true. I've met lots of wonderful ones, and he wasn't that bad. Maybe I painted him unfairly; I was wrong if I did.” “Then I'll be different. I'll cook and clean up for us, I'll change all its diapers, do everything—please don't laugh, I'm not being silly; I'm giving examples. I'm saying I'll do everything there is or you want me to or just make if fifty-fifty if that's what you want, and not because you want it but because that's fair. You deserve to finish school and get a job you like and which pays well and do what you want outside the home for a change. And I've the energy for it all, work outside and in the home and work on my own work—” “No and that's final.” “Please reconsider.” “No and that's final, the end, finished, we, the matter, talking about it, whatever we're talking about, everything, done, finito.” “Then let me out. I don't want to ride with you anymore. I don't want to see your face anymore.” “Hey, if that's how you feel, ditto, but I can't let you out on the highway.” “You can. Just pull over and leave me on the shoulder. I'll walk to the next town or to a gas station on the highway and get a hitch to a town from there. I can use the time to walk—to think, I mean. I need to think a lot about it all and walking to the town or gas station if they're far enough will do it. And then I'll take the bus back to the city and you can explain to your folks why I'm not with you when I started out with you and you'll be glad to be rid of me, so let me out, now. Now. I want to get out,” and he opened his door, she said “Stop it, don't be insane, close it, put your seat belt on, close the door, you stupid idiot, and lock it,” and he said “Then stop the car and let me out,” and she slowed down, he closed the door, she picked up speed, he opened the door, she slowed down and signaled right, he closed the door, she pulled over and stopped along the highway. He got out, was crying again, sat down on the embankment with his back to the highway, “Go, don't worry about me, if that's what you're doing, which I'm sure you're not. I've got good shoes on. It could even turn into an experience—it's a nice day—I used to do a lot of this, walking, hitching, here, Europe, years ago, before I knew you, so just go,” and she said “Fine, you were a daredevil those carefree days, but at least let me drive you to a town with a bus station. The one you walk to might not have one,” but he waved her away, under his breath said “Eat shit, you fucking witch,” she said, his back always facing her, “You have enough money on you?” and he said yes, though he didn't know, and she said “OK, then I'm going,” dropped his book beside him, draped his sweater over his shoulder and drove off. He sat awhile, heard a bird but didn't feel like looking for it, saw an ant and smashed it with his fist, ripped grass out around him, tore some of it up and flung it around him shouting “Bitch, bitch, bitch, and I don't care who the fuck hears me,” looked around, cars and trucks passing, all the drivers looking at him, got up, wondered which way to go—back? should he cross the highway?—he didn't remember the last time he saw a sign for a town or an exit though that didn't mean there hadn't been one a minute or two back, he just hadn't been looking, go forward, something tells him an exit's coming up, so maybe he did see something and if he gets tired he'll stick his thumb out. But then he should cross the highway, for if he does get a ride maybe it'll be going all the way to the city. Crossed it, didn't get the equivalent of two city blocks when a car honked behind him, recognized it as hers. She pulled over. “I was coming back to go around for you. Really, come with me, my parents will be disappointed. And maybe while we drive we can talk some more about it if you promise not to make any more demands.” “Then you haven't changed your mind about the abortion?” “Please not again—promise not to—literally—or I'll drive off and this time not come back nor be home whenever you get there, or anything.” “At least kiss me.” “I can't now. It's the last thing on my mind. Please get in so we can go. My mother worries.” He opened his door. “But you'll promise before you get in?” “I'll try not to talk about it.” “Not enough.” “I won't talk, no demands.” He sat with her in the hospital, holding her hand while she was in bed waiting to be wheeled in, not saying anything, book opened on his lap but not reading it. If only she'd say “I'm making a mistake, let's get out of here before it's too late.” Then the nurse came in and said “You're next,” and he said “Last chance to change your mind. I still want it very much and I'll do everything in the world for you and the baby and you wouldn't be, I'm sure of it, the first one to change her mind here like that.” “I'll see you later, sweetheart. You'll be here?” He drove her home after, she fell asleep against his shoulder as they were crossing the George Washington Bridge and he was about to point out the huge spotlit American flag spanning the two main supports on the New Jersey side.

Drives his daughter to school, parks, holds her backpack, walks her into class, does this all year. Last week of school he says “Want to go in on your own today?” She says no. Next day he asks the same. She says “I think so.” “Do if you want to, don't if you don't want to; it's all up to you. I think you're ready.” “Yes, I do.” “Good, because someday this is how I'll leave you off every time. I'll pull up, kiss you good-bye, open the door for you from the inside or if it's raining, from the out, you'll leave and wave to me and I'll wave back and probably blow you a kiss and if you're real nice to me you'll blow me back one and then run into school. If it's raining I'll get you inside with an umbrella unless you're dressed for it.” “OK, I'll go by myself.” Comes around her side, opens the door, takes her backpack out, puts it on her shoulders, kisses her head, her hands, she says “Bye, Dada,” he says “Bye, my sweetheart,” she starts for school, up the steps, waves to him from the landing railing, looks sad, he says “What is it?” she says “I want you to come in with me.” Drives his daughter to school. “Bye, darling,” “Bye, Daddy.” Opens her door from the inside, she gets out, he hands her her backpack, kisses her cheek, says “Be careful of your fingers closing the door, or want me to do it?” she says “You always tell me that and I'm always careful,” shuts the door carefully, starts for the steps, turns to wave at him, he's waiting for her to turn, smiles, waves, blows a kiss, leans out her window, “Have a great day, sweetheart, good-bye,” and she goes up the steps. Drives his daughter to school, glances at her, something's different about her, looks at the road, glances back, missing or changed, “Your glasses, they're not on you. Damn, what the hell, can't you remember any bloody thing?” she says “They're not bloody,” “I know they're not bloody, I'm just saying, goddamnit,” makes a turn at the next street, backs up, goes back up the hill to their house, “Fucking stupid kid,” he mumbles low, looks at her, she's about to cry, did she hear? why'd he do that again? now she'll be sad for hours unless he apologizes, parks in front of the house, runs in, “What's wrong?” his wife says, “Glasses,” “They're on your face,” “Hers; where the hell are they? that fucking dimwit kid,” “On the dining room table, but don't make it awful for her, don't scold her,” “I won't; it's what I feel like doing but I know what it does to her too,” runs out, she's still sad he sees through her window, gives them to her, she puts them on, he drives down the hill, says “I'm sorry, very sorry, I was wrong, not you. Because what am I expecting from you? You're only six and you already do more intelligent and helpful things than kids twice your age.” “No I don't.” “You do, take it from me. I should have made sure you had your glasses just as I do your backpack and lunch and quarter for milk and so on.” “No, I should.” “Then both of us, but I was all wrong and am sorry. Forgive me?” “It was only a mistake,” looking straight ahead, never at him. “What, my yelling, mumbling those awful things under my breath with the stupid hope you'd hear them?” “I didn't hear them. What did you say?” “Just stupid things. Your daddy's an ass. But what did you mean a mistake?” “Leaving my glasses home. But everybody makes mistakes.” “That's right. That's why I'm saying I'm so sorry.” Pulls up in front of her school. “We're late. Want me to write a note to Mrs. Barish saying why?” “No, it's only a few minutes.” “I wouldn't say I yelled at you or about the glasses, just that I lost track of time or something.” “You'd be lying.” “A little lie, what's that? So she doesn't have to know everything that goes on with us. And look at me, sweetheart.” “She says you don't have to every time. I'll get in trouble if you do,” and doesn't look at him. “Please say you're sorry then. I mean that you know I am and you forgive me.” “You always get so angry. You scare me when you do. I think it's something I've done.” “You're right. I'm sorry. You're right.” Puts his hand out to turn her face to his so she'll look at him and he can kiss her. She opens her door. He barely pecks the back of her head as she's getting out. “Your backpack.” She comes back for it and he hands her it through her window. “And your glasses. I must've smudged them when I got them for you because I know I cleaned them this morning.” Takes them off her, wipes them with the front of his shirt, gives them back. She puts them on, blinks a few times through them as if testing them out, turns without looking at him and goes up the steps. “Sweetheart,” he yells out her window. She doesn't come to the railing. He waits for about a minute. What he deserves, he thinks. What's he doing to the poor kid?