Frog (75 page)

Shades up in two, down in the three others, lights on in all but never sees anyone. Gives up in an hour. Cold out, some people passing on the sidestreet look at him as if he's about to commit a crime. Calls up friends of hers who seemed to like him. Several say what can he do? She's in love, getting married soon, best thing is to accept it or forget her. One invites him for coffee. Lincoln's been a Christian Scientist since he was a kid, he's told. Janine used to be one when she was a girl, and her mother still practices it sometimes. Lincoln brought her back into the church. She's given up alcohol, little she drank, does the Mary Baker Eddy and Bible exercises every day, is already distributing old
Monitors
and religious magazines and leaflets to barbershops and places like that. She's never been happier or healthier. She not only says it but looks it. She's even given up coffee and regular tea. They've visited the mother church in Boston twice since they got together and for their honeymoon they're flying to Paris to see avant-garde plays for a week—Lincoln speaks fluent French—and then to study there for a month with what she guesses could be called a Christian Scientist guru. Lincoln's bought an Italian motor scooter and they zip around town on it like a couple of kids and they both got jobs on the same soap for this fall. The wedding date and place are a secret except to their guests, this woman says, “presumably to keep it from you and another of her past suitors. She certainly knocked off a few.” Calls her at Lincoln's, she answers and he says “So how are you?” and she says “I'm fine, what do you want?” and he says “Oh God, gruff voice, I thought you said you wanted to talk to me in a couple of weeks,” and she says “Lincoln explained it to you once; that should be enough,” and he says “Please don't ride on motor scooters; they're dangerous. Oil slick comes, it'll skid and you'll crash or fall off. Get a helmet at least,” and she says “You're probably right about the helmet; I'll get one for Lincoln too.” “And you gave up coffee and tea that has caffeine, I heard. You used to love coffee, made the best I ever had. Ground it fresh every morning, mixed it with whatever you mixed it with—chicory, sometimes two different beans.” “It became a fetish. And it's a stimulant. I happen to love herbal teas or vegetable broth first thing in the morning, at least as much.” “Good, all that makes you feel better, live longer, you don't need doctors anymore, but he's twelve years older than you, someone said.” “So what? I wasn't hiding it.” “But when you're twenty-eight, he'll be forty. Thirty-eight, he'll be fifty, and so on. By comparison to you, he already looks old.” “He looks as young and is probably in twice the physical shape you or any man your age is, including professional athletes. He never drank, smoke, did anything to poison his body, and because his principal theatrical interest is mime, just practicing it hours a day keeps him incredibly fit. He can stand upside down on a single finger and then walk on two—you know what it takes to do that? As for his mind, it's clear, imaginative, and youthful as they come.” “Religion is the last refuge of a dumbbell or whatever someone once said. Who needs to bow? Who needs to pray? Like a bunch of beggars the way they hand around that dumb money tray. And who needs to read some wacko whose hip bones stitched naturally after a break but starts up her own religion from it.” “You haven't read her. We don't bow. Other than for what we think are its practical benefits, praying can be like meditation, which you loftily once said you thought there could be some value to and you might want to try. You ought to witness a Science testimonial some Wednesday afternoon or night at any of the churches around town or go to a Sunday service. Everyone's lovingly invited, even tourists, and you'll see we're not robots and there are no ministers. It's entirely run by laymen and women, services and church. I could lead a service if I wanted to and knew enough.” “You've been brainwashed. Your mind's hanging out to dry and is getting bleached by the sun and holes in it from the wind.” “I knew you'd get around to that business eventually. Insults and ignorance. We've seen it before. Please don't call again, Howard. You were once sweet and caring but you're now a headache. Right after this I'm having our phone disconnected,” and hangs up. Calls back a few minutes later to apologize and the phone's busy. Calls the next day and it's busy and day after that the number's been changed and new one's unlisted. It's an emergency, he tells the operator and she says “Not even for emergencies it says.” Writes her letters, apologizes in them, says he was feeling crazy and depressed before, so because of it bitter and unloving, but he's now over it, pleads for her to meet him so he can ask her forgiveness in person, but they're never answered or sent back. Wants to get away from her, hitch and train around the country, have adventures, more experiences, meet lots of women, work at various places to make money to continue traveling. Goes to D. C. to say good-bye to his oldest brother. In an elevator at the Press Club an acquaintance of Jerry's steps in, they're introduced, says “He the brother who wants to be a writer?” “Both,” Jerry says, “but the older one's actually getting published.” Remembers Jerry telling him Howard worked as a copyboy at CBS when he was in college, wonders if he'd like to fill in for a vacationing reporter for three weeks. Does, stays for two years. Year after he has the job he gets Lincoln's number from Information. Calls a few times over the next months. Lincoln always answers and Howard always hangs up. Once though he says in a muffled fake voice “Hello, this is Balicoff Studios in Los Angeles, is Miss Austin in?” “Hold on, please,” and in the background Lincoln says “It's fantasyland; what do they want?” and she gets on and says “Janine Austin speaking,” and he says nothing and she says “Hello, what studio in L. A., my husband wasn't able to catch it so fast?” and says nothing and she says “Have we been cut off? Could you speak louder, if you're speaking, or do you want to call back? Yell yes and I'll hang up.” Nothing and she says “I think I hear someone there; is anyone there?” and waits a few seconds and says “Oh well, if it is some studio, try to call back, thanks,” and hangs up. She sounded the same, maybe a little artificial because she thought it was an important professional call. Pictured Lincoln seated beside her on the bed, holding her hand, ear near the receiver. Then them both waiting for the studio to call back and after a half hour or so dialing California information for Balicoff Studios or any name sounding like that, and then realizing it was a prank and maybe even Howard calling, or maybe they realized it right after she hung up or Lincoln realized it before, or there could be a new guy carried away by her and they thought it might be him. Calls her folks a couple of weeks later when he's drunk and depressed and says “Howard Tetch, you remember me,” and her father says “Sure,” and says “How's Janine?” and he says “Fine,” and says “Good, any other news about her?” and he says “None we know of—take care of yourself, Howard, nice speaking to you,” and says “That's great, and nice talking to you too, sir.” Wrong thing to do, thinks next morning. They'll tell her, they'll all say how immature he still is and doesn't he realize how disturbing it is getting a drunken late-evening call like that? Writes her folks an apology, saying he'd gone to a party, too much to drink, got sloppily sentimental—doesn't know why, Janine hasn't been on his mind for a year—it'll never be repeated, wishes them well, doesn't hear back from them. He and another reporter quit their jobs to form their own radio news service, running it out of the radio-TV gallery in the Capitol. Month after they start it his partner has a stroke, partially paralyzed and can't type or speak on the air anymore and Howard can't run it alone or bring in anyone else as his partner was the brains behind it. Could go back to his old job but returns to New York permanently because just around then the freighter his brother Alex was on disappeared in the Atlantic and he thinks he should be near his sister and folks. Moves in with them, job, calls up one of Janine's best friends, doesn't mention her name but hopes she and her husband will and tell him something about her. They've heard him on radio several times, seen him on TV asking questions at the political conventions and of visiting dignitaries like Khrushchev and Macmillan and Mrs. Roosevelt at Washington airports and in the Capitol and such and once on a panel show on some news subject, glad he's found something he likes doing and is good at and he says he doesn't much like it, still wants to write and actually gets some lines down now and then. They invite him for dinner, wonder if they should invite Janine. “Why,” he says casually, “she still in the city?” “You didn't know?
You're
some reporter. They got divorced. Incompatible. Nothing brutal. Simply couldn't live with each other after a while. Maybe it was sex, or with actors, more likely ego. And more with Lincoln than her, because she was never much that way, was she?” “Ego? No, not that I saw.” “She's still very involved with Christian Science and they see each other at the same Sunday church service sometimes, but that's all. She got a Mexican quickie. So you wouldn't mind?” “Me? It'd be nice seeing her again, if she can stand being in the same room with me.” “And why wouldn't she? She once told me she understood why you did what you did, though at the time found it unbearable, but harbors no ill feelings.” Goes to their apartment, hopes she's been invited and comes, brings a good bottle of wine, expensive pastries, combed his hair this way and that to try to cover his growing baldness, tie? no tie, but shine your shoes, tried ironing his pants but his mother took over: “You're too nervous. Men can never do it right anyway unless they worked in a cleaner's. Where you going?” and when she hears Janine might be there: “Too bad about her divorce. I always liked that girl. Real lively, but how you let her get to you I never approved. Never be a fall guy. Sensitivity's fine, but make the women come to you. Remember what everyone knows and has told me: with your looks and brains you could have almost anyone. Give her our best.” It's winter, old snow on the ground, sees her wet boots on the doormat. His pulse; number of other physical reactions which were also with him during his twenty-block walk here. She answers, big bright smile and loud hi as she used to open the door with when things were good with them. Happy to see him, says it, looks it. He pretends to be subdued: “Thank you, nice seeing you too,” but sweat on his face a giveaway. “Look at me,” wiping. “I ran from the bus stop for exercise, which I didn't get today, and because I thought I might be late. I hate hanging people up, and I see I'm not,” looking at the wall clock. “Hope you didn't shake up the wine and cake too much.” Oh God, how could he run with the wine and cake? “No, I held them both to me, cake straight,” and demonstrates. “Anyway, hi and hello,” putting out his hand. She shakes it and puts out her cheek. “This is fun,” she says, “five minutes of greetings.” Where's the couple? Hears them in the kitchen. They must have planned, or she said “Let me get it,” so she planned, but why the plans if it wasn't that they were busy and she was just helping them out by answering the door? But why wouldn't they be out here by now? Maybe a good sign. No older, hair up and even blonder, as beautiful, body seemingly unchanged. She says “We're having champagne—I'm not but they are and I hope you will too—to celebrate a belated happy new year. I was supposed to go to a party with the Lipsatz's but never made it. The flu.” “You OK now?” “Of course, it was weeks ago.” “Sometimes they linger on,” knowing he's showing too much concern. How to undo that? Thinks; can't. Just says “You're right.” Lipsatzes come out with hors d'oeuvres and the champagne and tray of champagne glasses, one filled with club soda and ice. “Happy New Year,” Janine says, holding her glass up and they all say Happy New Year and he intentionally starts the kissing by kissing Naomi's cheek first, then goes over to her and she puts her lips out and he gives what he thinks she expects, a peck, then kisses Mel's cheek and right after he does realizes Mel just wanted to hug. “It's really wonderful being here,” he says—they're still in the foyer, he hasn't taken off his coat yet—“old friends, really,” and thinks, taking off his coat, switching the glass from hand to hand instead of putting it down on a sideboard which seems new or highly polished and he doesn't want to stain, if he could only say something funny, true, untrite. He's still nervous, pulsing in spots; relax, try to avoid eye contact with her for most of the evening and see how she reacts. Much better at dinner: words there when and where he wants them and often big ones but where it's not obvious they're said to impress. “What's ‘extrapolation' again?” she says at the table. Lipsatzes in the kitchen cleaning up, though the plates and utensils were throwaway paper and plastic and there was no salad or bread and the entire dinner came out of one pot. There to leave them alone? If so, only planned on their part. “Why,” though he knows, “in something you read?” “You used it, don't you remember? When you were saying President Kennedy's a charming lightweight compared to Mike Mansfield who you said is the one senator there qualified to run the country.” “Sure, in decency, dignity, speaking ability, modesty, intelligence, world experience and things like that. His face is pockmarked and he comes from little Montana, so maybe that's what killed it. But Jesus, I totally forgot using the word. Just came and went. At least you know I didn't say it to impress you. I won't even try defining it I'm so bad at that,” and then gives one straight from the dictionary, as he'd looked it up last night for about the fifth time in a year. She says “Talking about impressions. I'm impressed the way you've changed in almost every aspect. It must be your work, people depending on you and all the interesting types you met, living away from home and in your own apartment, holding down a demanding position and what any two years would do to someone our still impressionable age.” “I don't know. To me I'm just the same old schmo, but thanks.” “Oh come off it.” They leave together. Said at the table to her “I've got to go—work tomorrow—but you stay.” She said no, the Lipsatzes have to get up for work too. In the elevator she says “I'll get the number 10 bus downtown.” “Take a cab. It's late and your neighborhood I'm sure isn't the safest.” “Money money money,” she says, “but I'll be all right.” “Here,” and he fishes out a five. “I'm working and I don't want you going home except by cab.” “Always so protective,” she says. “I'd do it for almost anyone, honestly.” Opens the cab door for her, tells himself not to attempt even an innocent kiss goodbye, says “May I call you?” “I hope so, if just so I can give you your five dollars back.” “Precious cargo,” he says to the driver, who nods, doesn't turn around, and thinks another trite familiar remark; when she's driving home she'll think I'm even a worse schmuck than I was. She waves through the back window as the cab pulls away; he gives a brief wave and then pretends to be fingering his coat and pants pockets for something, eyes where his hands are, anxious look. Before the cab left she said “Want to be dropped off on the way?” and he said he'd rather jog home—“exercise again”—but walks, interpreting all the signs he could remember and what she said, punching his palm several times, not believing his luck. Phones, they meet, kiss the first night, meet, doesn't want to sleep with him till she feels they're ready, he tells himself don't push it, ruin it, she's not saying she doesn't want to be with him. Takes a week. Night of the biggest snowfall in years. Maybe it contributed to it in different ways. They're walking home from a movie in the Village. Nonessential cars, radio says the next day, weren't allowed into the city. Several horses with sleighs down lower Fifth. Cross-country skiers, no traffic noises, so voices from blocks away. “Hiya, neighbor,” a stranger says. Throws snowballs at lampposts, lobs one at her and she quickly turns around and it smacks her back. “You-u-u,” and comes at him with a handful of snow as if she's going to mash it into his face, drops it when she gets close and either he hugs her and she falls into his arms or she falls into his arms and then he hugs her, and they laugh, brush the snow away from the other's neck, nip at each other's lips and then kiss. “I'm going to get even with you one day for that snowball, mister,” she says when they separate, and he gets down on one knee and says “No, please, have pity, don't,” and makes a snowball down there and threatens to throw it at her and she screams and runs off. Arms around each other's waists rest of the way, kissing, saying things like “I'm gonna say it: I love you, always have, always will”; “I love you too, sweetie”; “You do? You mean romantically? Then I love you too-too.” “Too-too what?” “Too-too much which isn't enough.” “Never too-too much, never enough; by George, what do I mean?” “Never ever have I loved you more, never have I loved anyone more or as much. Seriously, I'm being serious, though I bet you don't want to hear it.” “You're a darling and a dearie,” she says, “and I mean it.” “I'm gonna say this is the happiest night of my sappy life; day or night, happiest sappiest anytime, day, dusk, dawn or night.” “It isn't mine but it's one of and that's sufficient, isn't it, or not?” “It doesn't always have to be equal so long as it's close.” “It is; it's going along perfectly; we've lots more time.” Apartment's warm, radiators knocking, windows steamed up, doesn't want to push, ruin it, though now isn't sure he could, still, she's a changeable sort, gets down to his jockey shorts as he does whenever he sleeps over—fresh pair every day; they're white, doesn't want her turned off by stains—kisses her goodnight, “So good night then, my dear, sleep well, pleasant tights,” saluting her, bowing, shaking her hand, then the other, wants her—knows he's going too far—to pick up on the irony of their passionate kissing on the street and now going to separate beds, heads for the couch hoping she'll call him back if just for another kiss, when he gets there wonders if he shouldn't have tried necking with her just now, massaging her back, maybe curling his arm around to brush her breast, “Excuse me,” somehow maneuvering her hand to his fly. No, but at least to have said “You know I'd love sleeping with you—perfect night, the snow, hissing radiators, rising risers, chained tires clanging outside, besides what I've said is the deepest besides the ruttiest kind of love I've ever had for anyone including you. But I can understand why you're not tempted—no, that's not the right word—so I'm not going to push it, ruin it. We've time as you say, right, so who's complaining?—not I,” and then, as he did, to walk to the couch without looking back. She says, when he's making the couch up, pretending not to notice her going back and forth from bathroom to bedroom, trying to push his penis back between his thighs because it's sticking straight out, “Listen,” in a short nightie, nipples and pubes seen through, “why don't you sleep with me tonight, if you promise to take off those godawful shorts.” “You want me to wear boxer shorts instead of briefs?” “Anything. Nothing, under your pants, if I had the choice between those and no underclothes.” Engaged in a couple of months. Proposes in her building's basement while they're taking clothes out of the washer and sorting them and putting most into the dryer. “I know this is the wrong place but would you, if I asked, marry me?” and she says “Why, what other place would be more memorable to be asked that except maybe the toilet? and I'd love to.” “Let me get it straight—for the record as we reporters like to say—I never did but I heard about it—you'd love to marry me?” “Yes, I would.” “You will marry me then?” “Yes, I've said it.” “We can tell people, we can start planning for it? I can start considering your apartment my home?” “We might want to get a larger one, but for the time being, sure, it's ours. As for telling people, let's digest it for now and, to mix it up a bit, sit on it for about two weeks, but don't you worry, I won't change my mind.” Their folks meet at a restaurant and her father says “I can see who he resembles,” looking at his mother, and she says “Oh, Simon was very handsome when he was Howard's age—all the women went for him and I felt fortunate he chose me. But he got plump and now you can't see the likeness except in the strong chin, but I'd say he resembles him.” “Don't ruin it for the boy,” his father says. “I was a born eater while he's mostly hated food and has stayed thin. But you're the bathing beauty—you know she was Miss New York, or was it Rockaway, before I met her and she danced in the Scandals?—so let them think he got his good looks and sleek physique from you.” “With Ziegfeld. And I would have won the Miss America too if they had talent then as part of the competition. But it was all rear ends and no brains and they chose some Pennsylvania Slovak who everyone said slept with the two main judges when they couldn't get me.” “You never told me about the hanky-panky,” Howard says. Starts reading the daily Christian Science exercises from