Stephen Dixon - Frog

“We would’ve given you a lift, Father. We still could.”

“No, I need the exercise badly — So, when we saw someone entering your building, we said ‘Why don’t we do that too?’ and we came in here. That’s the only reason — to get out of the sun. Now if it’s all right with you, sir, thanks for your interest, but these men are very busy and we have to finish our little talk.”

“Yes of course, I’m sorry,” and he leaves the building.

He’s walking downstairs, thinking of the work he wants to do and how he might start it, when the sight of three men stops him. A priest in a black suit and two policemen in white shirts with no jackets. Something about the bright light on them from the hallway window, making the shirts seem illuminated and the suit look as if it has a white outline around it. They’re talking low, stop, look at him a few seconds and continue talking low. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but by their looks he can see it’s something very serious to them. Then the priest slaps his hands, keeps them clenched and says “Don’t worry, leave it to me. It’ll turn out aces, I guarantee it.”

“There’s never a guarantee with something like that,” one of the policemen says.

“Excuse me,” Howard says. “Is anything going on in the building that I can be of some assistance to or that as a tenant here I should perhaps know about?”

“What could be going on?” the policeman says.

“Just that you three men here. It’s not the kid — maybe I shouldn’t say this.”

“No no, go on, what?”

“The young man above us — our apartment. I mean, I don’t want to start anything, but it’s only that he has been in trouble with the police before that made me bring it up. They’ve been here a couple of times the last year, so I thought — Just that, well, when you live in a building with your family — even alone, if that’s the case — and there’s one guy who occasionally acts like a punk and once or twice has been one too—”

“Wait, you mean the Huffman kid?” Howard nods. “Right, for a moment I didn’t realize what building we were in — Drugs, selling them,” he says to the priest, “and supposedly ripping off a bike in this or the next building a few months ago.”

“The next one, which is the sister one to ours,” Howard says.

“Anyway, all straightened out now, I heard — You know the Huffman kid, don’t you?” he says to the other policeman.

“No, who?”

“Long hair, kind of stringy, dirty. Tall, hefty, really fat-faced kid we came here or the next building to see about that bike, and maybe last year also, winter.”

“You probably came here for him but to the next building for the bike owner,” Howard says.

“I wasn’t on with you either time,” the other policeman says.

“I don’t know the young man either,” the priest says. “But he has nothing to do with our being here,” to Howard, “nor does anyone in the building, far as I can tell. And we do have to finish our talk…”

“Sure, certainly. And I’m sure I shouldn’t have said anything about the Huffman kid.”

“Why not? Neighbors should look after neighbors, so long as they’re not being nosy; and if there’s wrongdoing, to do what they can to discourage it. That’s all you were doing.”

“I suppose. Thank you,” and he goes past them.

He’s walking downstairs when he hears men on the first floor and then sees two policemen and a priest. “Excuse me, is anything wrong?”

“No, we’re just talking,” the priest says.

“It’s only that you all look so grave. For a moment I thought it could even be my daughter at nursery. She goes to the one over there at First Lutheran Church.”

“I’m a Roman Catholic priest.”

“Of course, I’m sorry. Also, I didn’t really think it seriously, that something was wrong about my daughter. It was just something that came all of a sudden when I saw you.”

“It isn’t your daughter, don’t worry,” one policeman says.

“I know; but someone here?”

“Nobody regarding anything grave,” the priest says. “I was returning something to a member of my church,” and he nudges a shopping bag on the floor with his foot, “and the officers were talking to me outside when it began to rain.”

“Oh, it’s raining? I better go up and get an umbrella. Excuse me,” and he goes upstairs.

He’s walking downstairs when he sees two policemen and a priest. Priest is in a black suit, clerical collar, has white hair. Police are jacketless and in long-sleeved white shirts, black ties held down by clips, no hats. One’s leaning against the radiator, other’s against the wall, both with their arms crossed, listening to the priest. The priest stops talking when Howard approaches them. “Good afternoon,” he says.

“Afternoon,” the priest says. The policemen nod, arms stay crossed, look at him, he thinks, as if he may be the one they’ve come to see.

“Something wrong in the building?”

“Nothing’s wrong, everything’s right, thank you.”

“But having the police and you—”

“We’re just—”

Walking downstairs. Hears voices from the second floor. Men’s. Three to four, it sounds like. Stops halfway down to listen. Garbled, can’t make out a word. Maybe it’s a foreign language. But he knows a few foreign languages, or two fluently and parts of others. Nothing. He goes all the way down. Two policemen and a priest. Priest is gesticulating with his hands and head. Police are shaking their heads animatedly. “But we have to,” the priest says. “Not on your life,” one policeman says. “I also have serious reservations,” the other policeman says. “No, we have to, that’s all there is to it,” the priest says.

“Anything wrong?” Howard says.

“Wrong, how?” one policeman says.

“In this building. Maybe on this floor. Is anything the matter?”

“Yes, now that you mentioned it,” the priest says.

“Father. It’s supposed to be strictly official,” the policeman says.

“Why? Maybe this man knows something — You live here, don’t you?”

“On the second floor. Howard Tetch. With my family. What is it?”

Suddenly he sees two policemen and a priest. They look at him, come straight toward him. “What? Is it my wife?”

“No, why would it be?” one policeman says.

Two policemen and a priest. “May I help you?” Howard says. They hurry past him. “Excuse me, but is anything wrong?” They keep going, don’t look back at him, he starts after them upstairs. They go down the hall, stop at his door and ring the bell. “That’s my door. The bell doesn’t work. And you don’t have to knock. I’ll let you in if you want. Nobody’s home though. My wife’s out with our kids. Is it something about them? She took the car.” The priest says something to the policemen, walks toward him, the policemen stay behind.

Priest and two policemen. “Yes?” he says. “Well, tell me.”

“It’s true,” the priest says. “I’ve some news for you, very bad news. Give me your hand, sir.”

“No.”

“Perhaps one of the officers can stand beside you while I tell you.” One of them does. Howard steps away, looks at the priest who’s now telling him something, runs out the building.

Two policemen and a priest. “Hello,” he says. They nod. He snaps his fingers, says “Excuse me, I think I forgot something,” and goes back upstairs and unlocks his door.

“Leave something behind?” his wife says.

“No, nothing. Then what am I doing back here, right? Oh, I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you. One of the oddest things just happened to me downstairs. I was on my way out — well, you know. Going to the mall. All very innocent. When I heard male voices and then saw two policemen and a priest on the ground floor and I didn’t want to pass them. I actually made up an excuse to them to get back here.”