Frog (76 page)

Science and Health
and the Bible because he knows it'll please her, going to church with her almost every Sunday. She's usually one of the ushers: standing at attention at the door when you first come in, passing around the plate, always smiling because she believes it's infectious and in ways curing, white flower pinned to her dark collar; he can't stand looking at her she seems so fake and once thinks if she ever breaks up with him he'll use that image of her smiling and ushering in her ugly prim suit and pumps to lessen the pain. Says “I'm finding the readings very interesting, lot to learn from it, she's a very smart woman, and the Bible's such a beautiful book; I wish my folks had read it to me as a kid as yours did,” though finds it all a drag, too much like school was, but will continue doing it enthusiastically; then he'll quickly give her a kid. She doesn't want one so soon, he'll inseminate her somehow: stick it in before she says “Wait for my diaphragm,” all out of passion; then say let them do it that way a while, he never gets to be inside her without the smelly cream, he can control it till the last moment but he'll take it out long before that, while secretly leaking little by little in. She says “You don't have to read or attend any of it if you don't like, though of course if you really want to, it'd be very nice.” Wedding set for May. They want a small city hall ceremony and the reception in a Chinese restaurant on 103rd and Broadway but her parents say their house. She'll be accompanied downstairs. Her favorite flowers everywhere and about forty guests. He'll be waiting for her and they'll walk the next few steps together to the judge in front of the fireplace, lit if it isn't a hot day. Two-day honeymoon at the Sturbridge Inn, which they'll get to by rented car. In April, morning after a lot of evening lovemaking, where it's so bright and crisp that he jumps out of bed an hour before the alarm's to go off, half hour of energetic calisthenics, shower, reads by the kitchen window while having coffee and toast, kisses her hand and nudges her instead of letting the alarm go off, from the kitchen catches her through the bedroom mirror getting out of bed naked, holding up her breasts to inspect and slipping into her bathrobe, he's dressing for work while she's putting on hose when she says “I have something to tell you.” Way she says it. And doesn't look up at him. Immediately shouts “Forget it. Don't say anything, I'll just pack my clothes. Because it's happened again. But this time you drew me in nearer to give me even greater disappointment. You're cutting it all off, right?” “No. Don't jump the gun, Howard.” “Ah, fuck it. Ah, screw it. The whole thing's obvious. You're never going to go through with it even if you say now you only want the wedding postponed.” “I do only want it postponed. I've no doubts about my feelings for you but think we need more time to sanctify it.” “Sanctify, horseshit.” “It was the wrong word. And wrongly worded. I meant—” “You meant, you meant—we're over with, don't tell me. You're booting me the fuck out, for can you actually tell me you want me to continue living here?” “True, I do think it'd be better if we had separate living places for the time being. A month or two. Maybe through the summer, though we'll still see each other, of course; just a bit less. But this will give us time and room to think if we truly do want to go ahead with it.” “I truly do. There's nothing I want more.” “But I've been married. Getting divorced was devastating and I don't want to—I want to make absolutely sure I'm absolutely sure about marriage again. If we decide to go ahead with it, then it'll only have been a few months' delay.” “Nah, you're soft-pedaling me out of here. It's always the same. Whenever you want something that bad, it never turns out OK. Whenever
I
want—not you.” “That's not it.” “It is it. You know goddamn well we're done with, done with,” banging the couch with his fists. His untied tie starts to slide off his neck when he bangs and he grabs and twists it and tries tearing it in two and then throws it across the room. “You know what you're doing?” she says. “You're making me think why have I put up with you so long and your terrible tantrums?” “That was the first with you ever. But excuses. I'll give you real ones. Our different religions. You're a Christian Scientist and I'm an idiot trying to please you by reading it till I'm sick and blind.” “Well that's news.” “I'll give you more. You think you don't love me enough or maybe realized you never did.” “You know that's not so.” “It is. You hate even being mentioned as my fiancée. I saw it on the street with that guy Weinberg or Weintraub or whatever his name is—Ned, my brother Jerry's friend. After I introduced you—” “I only said later—he the one by Rockefeller Plaza?” “Yes.” “I didn't like being introduced as your appendage but by my name.” “But I was proud of it, wanted to tell everybody—” “I still didn't like it. It's demeaning, outdated, a step away from ‘my betrothed' or ‘intended' or ‘future slave.' Maybe not that bad, but do I go around calling you my fiancé?” “Do, I'd love it; then ‘my husband, my beloved, the love of my life.' What the hell else is it for? But you didn't like it because it was the realization that by the designation people had the expectation we'd eventually get married, and at that moment it sunk in.” “You're being silly. But we'll talk later, or we'll be late for work.” “I'm being realistic. If I can see, then I say what I see, and I can see it, on the wall, the freaking end-of-getting-married and end of everything else between us, so stop hiding it to make it so-called easier for me. Because if I'm to start getting the jitters about you dumping me, I want to starting today.” “All I can say—” putting on her coat, “Don't you want something to eat?” “No.” “Is that you're acting all out of proportion to the situation. But after the way you acted, perhaps it would be best if you got your things together this weekend and moved out for the time being.” “And you're saying you weren't going to tell me that before we had this rotten talk?” “I probably would have, if you didn't leave on your own in a week or so.” “Bullshit. Horseshit. I could kill you. Sorry, I don't mean that, but I hate you for what you've done. Sucking me in, leading me on…” He's punching his palm, biting his knuckles now. “Go yourself. I'll throw my junk together while you're out and that'll be it for us.” “No, I don't want you wrecking the place. Besides, I don't want to leave it like this. Come on, Howard, really; stick another tie in your pocket and let's go.” Does, muttering “Fuck you, you bastard, go screw yourself,” under his breath. They take the subway, don't speak. Didn't when they walked to the subway, he always a few feet ahead of her, “Boy, you really want to be rid of me,” she said. “Why don't you just race on ahead?” I would, I would, if I didn't want to, he thought. Didn't know if he should stick the coins in the turnstile for her, as he usually does, but did, after he went through, without looking at her. She touches his hand while they stand hanging on to a pole during the ride, but he pulls it away, looks at the ads around, can't stand looking at anything and shuts his eyes. I hate her. I'm going to go crazy without her. If it's bad now, what'll it be when my stuff's all out of her place and I don't have an excuse to see her? I'll call, she'll be nice on the phone, but won't see me. Maybe in a few weeks, she'll say. She'll start with some other guy, probably one from her church. Seemed to be a lot of good-looking bright guys there and a lot more fun-making in the sense she likes than him. Jolly, healthy, gay. I'll drink too much to get to sleep, wake up a few hours after I pass out and feel even worse because I won't be able to get back to sleep besides being a little stomach-sick, so I'll just think of her, the bitch, hours before with her apron on, cooking dinner for some guy, later on top of him in bed, at the same moment he's thinking all this, that smile on her puss when she's up there doing it that way, taking this subway with him next day. Shakes off the thought. “Anything wrong?” she says. “No,” closes his eyes again, recalls her as the smiling usher, escorting one of the elderly congregants down the aisle, that phony and fake. “Aren't the stained-glass windows here beautiful?” first time she took him. No, they're not, he thought, they're churchy, depressing, but said yes. I should be glad to be rid of her. If they had children, what fun would it be bringing them up if she led them to church every Sunday? This business with medicine. Dinner with her boring church friends, no wine, or a bottle only in front of him, and after, Sanka or herbal tea, though if he likes, real coffee. What'll I say to my folks, brother and friends? Who am I going to move in with? I'll have to get my own place quick. That's not easy. Everyone wants a cheap place in the Village. But I want it to be near hers but not in the same neighborhood, so I can bump into her or plan it so it looks that way. Forget that. I'll get one, anywhere in the city that's cheap, show her I don't need her. Show her nothing. Tell friends it's over and you want to go out with other women and then go out with them, find someone else—that's the best cure, and staying away from her. Opens his eyes, looks at her. So goddamn beautiful, it kills him. Would love for it to be like it's been, handholding on the train, if they get seats each reading a different section from the same newspaper and occasionally commenting on it, parting kiss. “Listen,” he says, and puts his mouth to her ear, “I love you too much, that's the problem.” “That's not it,” she says, “believe me.” “Then what is?” “Let's talk about it later,” as it's her stop they're pulling into, and she puts out her cheek, he says “Oh shove it. I'm not going to just take everything you dish out,” and she shrugs and goes. He's at work but can't work, calls her after lunch and says “So where do I stand? Can I come by later to at least pick up the stuff I need?” “Hold it. Don't go to extremes again. We should talk, Meet me after work?” Meet, dinner out, grabs her hand when they walk to the restaurant, she clutches his, puts her head on his shoulder, over dinner she says she was much too hasty this morning and didn't think through lots of what she said, his reaction didn't help matters but she takes part responsibility for that, she still wants the marriage postponed, she doesn't know till when, but please stay, she's almost sure it can all work out. “I'll stay, no question about it,” kisses her hands, she kisses his, stare at each other and cry. Few weeks later, while they're dressing for work, he says “By the way, have you had any more thoughts, either way, about the marriage being postponed or anything regarding it and us? Just asking, you don't have to answer.” “Truth is, after careful consideration, corny as that has to sound to you, and talking it over with some people good for that—” “Your practitioner?” “Among others. That's all right, isn't it?” “Really, what more important decision could you make, so anything you say.” By her expression and she's looking right at him and that “corny as that has to sound” remark, he thinks everything's going to be OK. “Anyway, you asked, so I'm saying, though I hate for it always to be the first thing in the day—I don't know when the right time for it could be—” “Wait, what are you saying?” “You must have sensed something's been wrong between us since the last time.” “No, nothing, what?” can hardly speak, “everything's been great.” “It hasn't. Quite the opposite. I've been withdrawn from you, melancholic to downright depressed most times the last two weeks. It's because it isn't working, and I also knew what I'd be saying now would hurt you, which made me feel even worse.” “Why? You've been happy, gay, moody occasionally, but not for long and no more than me—natural moodiness, comes and goes. And we've been fine together, same as ever whenever it's gone well, and it has, joking around, sleeping together—” “Not fine; not happy or gay. If I seemed liked it then it was an act not to show how I felt but one I wasn't even aware of. And sleeping with you is what you wanted so I gave in but not with any enthusiasm or joy. You had to know that too.” “I didn't. That's not at all what I caught.” “Then I'm not saying any more. We'll talk tonight. I don't want to ruin your day or mine as I did the last time.” “You saying you definitely can never think of marrying me?” “I think so. Or at least that's what I think now. And without that direction, we shouldn't live together. Something isn't clicking with us, I don't know what. You've been wonderful, have put up with me and my moods, but I need time to be by myself and think things out. Maybe, but I doubt it, I'll discover—” He pushes her, wants to hit her, she sees it, fist up and his face, and backs away. “Don't worry, I never would. Never you. Not that precious face. Oh no, I couldn't,” and smashes his fist through a panel of the closet door. She says “Now who's going to pay for that?” “Fuck it, you moron, your goddamn door.” “All right, I will fuck it. I'll fuck it, fuck it, fuck it, you fucking fucking curser. You crazy man. For the first time, though you've given signs, I'm truly afraid of you,” and goes into the bathroom and locks it. He listens at the bathroom door. “You crying in there? Well if you are, cry all you want; just think of what you've done to me,” and runs water over his hand, wants to put antiseptic on it but that's in the bathroom, wraps it with a dishtowel and leaves. Calls her at work and says “Sorry about the door. Tell Mrs. Young I fell with such force or something that my head went through it, but that I'll pay for it.” “I saw blood in the kitchen. How's your hand?” “My hand deserves what I did to it, so don't worry. I also want to say, if it'd help things, and I don't think it'd be a bad idea for me—I'm interested in it and I need—you saw—some additional spiritual discipline in my life like this—I'll convert to Science.” “Do it only for yourself, not me. It won't change anything between us. It's not the issue. Be Jewish; even be Orthodox Jewish.” “But I need you to stay with me and guide me in it. I'm serious about it. It's not just for you.” “Go to any Science church other than mine and ask them for advice. But nothing related to me.” “Ah, you just don't love me, that's all. You maybe did a little once—now and then—but not enough.” “Anyway, I'll stay somewhere else tonight and you can start moving out. I'll give you till around six tomorrow. But please go? And promise you won't wreck anything else or take whatever's not yours?” Gets an apartment. Gets drunk a lot. Calls her late at night a lot, for anything. “The Auden book I said I didn't want? I need it back. Not only because I'm starting to love his work again but there's something in it I have to find and copy down to go into my own writing.” “I'll send it.” “I have to have it by morning. Can I come right down?” She's on her stoop with the book. “Here. Please don't bother me with little things like this again. You want anything more of yours I might have, tell me now and we'll go upstairs and get it and that'll be all.” They go upstairs. He grabs her on the third-floor landing to kiss her. She puts her hand between their mouths. “Please. I feel nothing but sympathy for you now.” “Fuck you, you rat. You can have whatever I've left up there, or throw it out the window for all I care. Plus this book,” and heaves it downstairs, kicks it out of his way as he leaves the building. Weeks later wishes he hadn't; one about Yeats and another about suffering he wanted to go to; also the shortie where children die in the streets. He was drinking and in a sad serious mood. Meets her two years later at an art gallery she's working at. Saw the review and that afternoon had nothing to do. “Fancy this,” he says and she looks up from a textbook and that smile and big hi. “I didn't mean to just spring up on you. You're I swear a complete surprise.” She's no longer a Christian Scientist, is living with an artist who exhibits here but nothing of his up this moment, courses in anthropology, paleontology, ancient Greek, given up theater for good. News quit him when the show went off the air and he's living on unemployment and writing a book. They kiss each other's cheeks good-bye. “Wait a sec, I haven't even looked around,” does, says he wasn't disappointed and it's a nice walk back through the park. “By the way,” and invites him for dinner. Accepts but hour before just can't see himself there, sitting, wanting, coming back, and calls to say he suddenly got a stomach flu. The artist answers, says she's in the can now, he'll relay the message. “Too bad, it would've been interesting. Most of our pals can't talk anything but dealers or painters, when they're not descanting on