Frog (86 page)

“Slow and Low—you
never used it.” “It's good—who knows?
The Slow and Low Stories;
one character named Slow, the other Low; maybe one day.” “And
The Lonely Bed
, Eva's title for you.” “That's more for a single short piece or a children's book. A bed that can't find anyone to sleep on it because it's too lumpy or hard. Or it's in an old Maine attic or barn for a hundred years with no one to talk to but a mosquito or earwig before an antique hunter finds it, says ‘Hey, pure oak, great bargain,' and goes through all sorts of purchases and fixings-up to make it sleepable. New mattress and box spring and designer patchwork quilt and sheets and maybe even a friend or two for it now that the insects are gone—a night table and bedlamp—before the bed's finally slept on to its delight, so much so its springs squeal. Maybe we'll write it this summer. Or I just gave you the idea, so you write and illustrate it.” “No, you the words; something for the two of us to do.” “OK, collaborators. But now you two rest back there. Mommy wants to nap, right?” to Denise. “Will music disturb you? “If it's not clashy-bangy-squeaky modern or even a Scarlatti sonata too loud.” He looks in the rear view, sits up and adjusts it. Olivia reading, Eva looking at one of her books but blinking as if she's about to doze off. “Fix her pillow and she might get two hours.” Denise does—“I'm not tired,” Eva says—buckles up again, rests her head back and shuts her eyes. His beautiful wife who always looks better to him full face than profile. Nose, chin, now sacks under her eyes only seen from the side. And what happened to her breasts? Used to look at them from this angle and up till not even two years ago they were always fat or full and jutted out, even after the kids were weaned; now like anybody's; when they're hanging over him, two of them just about fill his hand. Diet, disease, maybe the drugs. And her calves: mottled, ankles swollen, when before like, well anything but like alabaster or marble, but for now that'll do: like the rest of her body except her buttocks: smooth, white. Her hair, always thick, wavier than usual today and with more ringlets; must have washed it when he was packing the car and leftover wetness and the humidity's doing it. Loves those curls. Like, well anything but like a young woman in a Renaissance painting holding a single pink or rose, but for now like one of those. “Don't ever cut your hair more than an inch or two—please; don't ask me why.” Eyes him. “Speaking to me? It might fall out from chemo, in clumps or patches, so be prepared for that, but I won't cut or shave it—promise.” Eyes close, back to the look she left; usually falls asleep in the car with a little smile, but over nothing he said. Fair unmarked face skin, not just pale; big broad forehead with a big broad brain behind, yellow-green eyes he loves the color of but can't look at very long. Maybe that's the way with all light eyes: pretty but they don't draw you in deep. Or they do draw but don't eventually stop you like dark eyes do. Oh who cares and what's she thinking? Probably just letting things come in or wondering why he brought up her hair. Why not her buttocks and neck? Well, he did think of her buttocks he'd tell her if she asked. Once fairly soft and large, now short and hard like a professional dancer's or athlete's because of all her exercise and weight loss, though pocked more than before: exercise? age? babies? not the drugs. Everything but the pocks he'd talk about. As for her neck, well anything but like a dancer's or swan's or a dancer dancing a swan, but for now that, and with her head arched back against the seat, even more. Or she could be thinking why's he keep looking at me while I'm trying to fall asleep? Worried about me? Or thinking of leaving me because he's afraid he'll be forced to take care of me completely in a few years? Help me up, help me down, turn me over in bed to avoid bed sores, dress me, undress me, bed pans, wiping my ass, feeding me, wiping my mouth, probably no sex, pads all during the day, diapers when I sleep and my pains and complaints and muddled talk? Also what I might look like then—shouldn't have mentioned the hair loss. But if he does leave, let him—just don't take the girls and she'll deal with it best she can: parents, friends, professional care. In other words: who needs the stiff if he's going to screw around with whatever she's got left to fight this fucking thing and make matters for her even worse? She wouldn't use fuck in any form, probably not even in her head. She's never said it around him except once when they had a big row and she said, after he said “Fuck you” to her, “Go fuck yourself too, you fucking prick.” When she wakes he should ask about the car smile and maybe what she thinks before she dozes off. If she asks why he could say he just wants to know someone else's thoughts and thought process but his own. His work bag! Feels behind the seat on his right where he thinks he put it, feels Olivia's leg, bag of Denise's health foods, cooler, some books but nothing else on the floor. With his other hand feels on the left side but can't get back there very far. Doesn't like to take his eyes off the road for more than a couple of seconds but sits up, turns around and looks behind his seat. Bag's there, Olivia's reading, Eva's asleep. Should have asked Olivia to look but didn't think of it. Shouldn't have panicked the way he did because suppose there'd been an accident because of it? His two kids, his wife hurt, maybe killed, and over his work? Not there it'd be somewhere, in the apartment, or if left on the street when he was packing the car and was now gone, then a great loss but not something he couldn't eventually make up for most of it and for all he knows come out better than before. It's happened—page mysteriously lost, page mistakenly used for scrap paper and tossed out—probably because he wanted to make up for the loss so much that he concentrated and worked even harder on it. If he couldn't make up for it, if nothing came back and couldn't be reproduced and he lost it all or what hadn't been photocopied and put some other place, in the long run so what? But what's he gain by finding or not finding it right away or later, for think of the risk he took. Well, if he found just now he didn't have it in the car he'd stop and phone the doorman in their building and ask him to see if the bag was still in the lobby from when he took all the things out of the elevator and if not to go outside to see if it's where the car was parked. If it wasn't in either place he might drive back to see if he left it in the apartment, but he's sure he didn't. He remembers carrying it downstairs but doesn't remember if he set it down outside the elevator or took it straight to the car. Actually, just to make sure, he'd ask the doorman to go into the apartment and if he found it there or in either of the other places, he'd ask him to send it express and he'd send him a check for it plus about twenty bucks extra. But the risk he took looking behind the seat while he drove. Pictures what it could be like now, a minute after. He'd be alive, Denise and the girls would be all over the place screaming, maybe no screaming, stop. If one of the kids died from an accident like that or lost an arm or eye, it'd end his life. Or sort of, or close to it, certainly worse if he was responsible for it, or even that can't be predicted, but stop. And he said if his kids died, what if they didn't but Denise did? He'd suffer, more so if he was responsible for it, or equally so, he'd be miserable for months, for a year, for a long time and then would try to hook up with someone and get married and have a child or two by her and having the new children which he wouldn't have had with Denise would make up for it some he'd think. Suppose Denise asked him how much of her falling apart does he think he can take. Why'd he think that? Something from before, connected to his depressing thoughts, or even the cooler with her ice packs and cold cap for if it gets too hot for her in the car. He'd say—truth now, what? He'd say—Things are always difficult to predict, he'd start off with, how one would react to something like that. How does one know how accustomed one can grow? And by falling apart, how bad? If she said: on her back, couldn't get up, had to be spoon-fed or through tubes, body a bony mess, so on, he'd say he loves her, would never think of forsaking her under any circumstances—deserting, leaving—it'd be terrible for the kids besides: how could he face them, and if he couldn't face them, how could he see them, and if he couldn't see them, how could he live? Nah, getting too fancy and off the mark. What would he say after he said he'd never leave? That he went through this with his sister a little and a lot more with his dad and both of them for several years so he's familiar how bad things can get and used to them he can become, doing things he didn't think he could and being of some help. So, what's to add?—he's here to the end, no question about it, the end meaning till the end of their marriage, which means till one or the other of them croaks of old age as they used to say, and he hopes that works both ways. Scratch the last. She'd say he's just trying to make her feel good, for he knows he's as healthy as a horse. So was she, he could say to that, but that wouldn't be too good either.

He squeezes her hand, she squeezes his, eyes still closed, smiles a different smile, one for him, but her face still facing front, takes her hand out from under his and puts it with the other on her lap. Why didn't she keep it under his? Probably to tell him to keep both hands on the wheel. He turns on the radio. Damnit, Dvorak, dials around and back to the station he had it on, though it's fading now so next time he turns it on it'll be out of range, and turns it off. “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she says, looking at him. “Did the music disturb you?” “No. And we're nowhere near Wilbur Cross, are we?” “You kidding? You were out for what, ten, fifteen minutes? We're just about coming to Westport.” “I spoke to Rosalie the other day and she said when we're driving up we should definitely make a point of dropping in.” “Was that a serious invitation?” “Rosalie; of course.” “But the ‘definitely make a point.'” “That was my wording, not hers. She even said to come for lunch. That there's always something good there to quickly prepare and eat.” “It means changing our plans, taking the Connecticut Turnpike instead of Wilbur Cross—you want that? What about the shade? And that's an hour, hour and a half at least at their place, even without lunch.” “Hour and a half at the most. And if it's lunch, we got that out of the way, so maybe a half-hour's been lost. And we keep saying we want to see them—” “You do. I like them but, you know…” “What?” “Nothing.” “We haven't seen them for more than a year, so here's a perfect opportunity.” “Perfect. But if you haven't seen someone for a year when you could have, maybe that says something.” “What does it say?” “It says what it says and how do we know they'll be in in about an hour or however long it takes? And they've a new place north of New Haven, so it might be tough finding even if she gave you specific directions.” “She did. They're so easy I didn't have to write them down. Off an exit, then a road, lane by the same name, all lefts, last house and only shingled one and we're there. It's five minutes from 91 and then you get back on the next exit, so you lose, or possibly even gain if it's a shortcut, three to five miles of mileage. She said to call just before.” “That means stopping and calling.” “We could do it at the next service station. While you're filling up and the girls are urinating, I can call.” “I don't have to fill up; besides, gas prices are usually much more expensive on the Merritt, and you're going to get out of the car to call?” “Why can't I? Just hand me my walker and some change, and if there are steps without a railing, help me up, and that's all. I'll have to stop soon for a ladies' room break anyway.” “That I'll do, anything, but the Shostaks? She's lively and likable but he dominates everybody and has no sense of humor.” “That's ridiculous.” “Well, if he does have one it's always done with a French or Latin phrase or is so erudite in English everyone laughs because they think they understand it or are afraid not to because of what hell think of them.” “Not true. He's very generous and sensitive, maybe it's the occasional inflated fool he can't take, but he's one of the rare big minds who listens to what you say and usually has something to say about it. After all, that's one way of showing interest in your thoughts.” “Still, the guy intimidates me with his conversations. Ancient law and politics, modern history and linguistics, painting, literature and music of all periods and the decline of culture and end of the LP.” “You're as much for the LP as he is and you love art and literature and serious music of all kinds.” “To see, read and listen to, not to talk.” “You like doing that too, about literature, and we always come away stimulated by our conversations with them. If'll also provide us with some good road conversation, which I love doing with you. Unfortunately, that kind of talk doesn't happen enough with friends or you. It's movies, vacations, breakups, bodybuilding, running shoes, food.” “He talks a few of those also, but OK, he is stimulating and I like talking about books I've read with someone who's read and remembered them, but not all the ibid.'s and op. cit.'s and minutay and stuff.” “Minutiae.” “Oh screw that word. When it's too tough to pronounce, spell and know the meaning of and then how to place it in a sentence, hell with it, and think if I'd have said it that way in front of him. The eyes! And later ‘Did you hear that minutial brain? And he teaches?' Really, I don't mean to put the guy down, for he is all the things you said if also a bit domineering and windbaggy and too much of the can't-abide-fools. And for an hour or two I can tolerate it for the stimulation and later the conversation it generates. But I just want to drive on, only make the natural stops. Pee, feed, gas. Maybe we can make more of a plan to see them on the way back.” “You'll give a different excuse then if you remember you gave this one.” “So we won't. But sometime after. In New York on our Christmas or spring breaks or invite them for a weekend in Baltimore if you like. But once moving, I'm a slave to getting there, not stopping off and frittering away our time.” “Frittering? Is that a joke? Howard Shostak and it's frittering?” “Wrong word, not frittering. Schnickering, pelickeling, but we'll stick to the Wilbur Cross?” “Stick, stick,” her head back, closing her eyes. Dvorak, when she was getting birth contractions with Olivia and was told by the hospital to continue to record them and wait, an all-night program of his music when he wanted to listen to almost anyone else while they stayed up in bed. When driving home from the hospital night Olivia was born, Cosi
fan Tutti
on the radio; knew it was Mozart but wrote the station and enclosed a self-addressed postcard to get the opera's name. “Do you want a rest stop soon?” “Now that Eva's up I could probably use one to avoid an unnoticed overflow.” “Next one I see and probably to top off the gas tank too, no matter what it costs. That ought to hold us to Bumpylumppen or the first gas station over the Maine border.” “Fine. Anything, right? to save time.”