Stephen Dixon - Frog

Ship’s a day away from Cuba. Almost two years after the revolution there. Carries lots of medical supplies originally bound for America, guns, launchers, plane and truck parts it hadn’t registered in England. Len tells Alex he’ll see he gets a good job and apartment and a fine-looking wife if he stays. “If you want, of course, fly back to New York day after we dock in Havana. Or Habana. Might as well get it right from the start. But why go back? You’ll live much better there than in the States and for a quarter of the money. Good food, cheap rum, great cafés, unbeatable natural scenery. Gorgeous, excitable, intelligent people, weather couldn’t be better, and soon free bread. Stay put. Write up a storm for fifteen years, then let the world see it. Most of the modern writers I’ve read rushed, rushed, rushed and were eaten up. Or twenty years, twenty-five. You’ll be the rare writer with a self-imposed postapprenticeship like that. And you’ll be right smack in the heart of a historical hot time, one the whole world’s noticing, but who the hell cares about that, right?” Alex likes most of the idea. Sees many women, marries, children, after awhile only speaks Spanish. His wife’s a doctor, professor. He builds houses, writes mornings, nights, days off. Misses his parents, brothers, sister. Periodically he wants to write them, call. Things get worse between the two countries, invasion, blockade, harder times. He’s told if he wants to leave, do it now, but without his family. He may also write to the States, but phone connections are finished. By now his parents must think he’s dead. Gotten over it. His whole family. Or maybe they haven’t, but he just doesn’t want to have anything to do with the life he had there. Is that it? Misses them all, but no one and nothing else. He wasn’t too happy there, he was also something of an adventurer, and now kind of likes it that everyone thinks the ship sank and he’s dead. Years. His father’s probably dead. Sick before, he couldn’t have lasted that much longer. If his mother’s also dead he’s sure he helped her go faster than she would have. For that he’s very sorry. There’s more. Knows the pain he caused but didn’t want to go back or let anyone know he was alive. Why? The first is easy to explain. In addition to what he’s said, he’d never go back without his family. But the other thing… probably because he wanted a new life, or a much different one then, with as little past as possible, a new name, even, though doesn’t quite know why. Why? Maybe it comes as close as possible to starting completely over and being someone else, with almost no past — but he’s said all that — no family scrutinizing what he’s doing, thinking they have the license to comment about and possibly try to change his actions, but that’s all. Is that it then? No. Not quite. Maybe doesn’t even come close. He just — how can he say this without repeating himself, with something that really gets it? He doesn’t know why he did it, and if he does know, why he continued doing it. He’s talking about not letting them know he was alive. Maybe he never really loved them that much. Never thought of that. But after about fifteen years he hardly thought of them anymore. After twenty-five years he maybe thought of two or three of them for a half-minute or so once or twice a year. They’d flash in, he’d think “I know you,” “I recognize her,” “That was Howard when he was a scrawny kid,” “Vera before she got sick,” “My father with one of his big cigars,” they’d flash out. About once every five years or so he got a little heartsick thinking of them, feeling awful about what he’d done, knowing that the ones still alive must think of him more often and much longer than he does them…. No, ship’s going down. Alarms, sirens, gail wind sounds, maybe hurricane winds. Worse than hurricane winds if there is anything like that. Lightning, thunder, violent rain. Never been in such a storm, heard of one. Can’t find a lifeboat or anyone on board. Moves around the ship best he can, holding on all the time so he won’t be thrown along a passageway, down a stairway, off the ship. Everyone seems gone. All the boats either smashed by the storm or in the water, some with men in them probably, though he didn’t see any of the boats go over and he can’t see them now and nobody answers his shouts. He didn’t understand the alarm system. It’s been explained to him and they even had a quick drill, but when he heard the different bells and sirens going he couldn’t tell which meant what. Asked some of the men below what the alarms meant and what he should do, where he should go, but they just shouted in Spanish at him or acted hysterically and pointed their battery lamps several different ways, one of them down, though they were on the lowest deck. Maybe the man meant the ship was going down, but he couldn’t speak a word of English or was unable to then and Alex couldn’t make himself understood in Spanish to him. He tried following two of them but lost them going through the ship. Couldn’t find Len. Went to his cabin; empty. Ship’s tipping up. He has to hold on to the railing or fall off the ship. Waves his flashlight and yells out to the water “Help, it’s Alex, the American, Americano, Captain Len’s friend, there’s no one here, I have to get on a lifeboat right away.” If he jumps he’ll die almost the second he hits the water. “If you’re lucky, that is,” Len had said. “If you’re unlucky it might take two minutes of the worst pain and dread imaginable, two to three, longer for the well-insulated or very fat guy. The shock of the frigid water and because you won’t be able to keep your neck above even with a lifejacket on. Or the greatest ecstasy, maybe, but that won’t last long.” Ship tips up again. He keeps yelling for help, waving the flashlight. Ship points straight up. He’s practically standing perpendicular to the deck, holding on tight as he can, flashlight falls to the water, when a wave smacks him, another one and another and he loses his grip and falls. Doesn’t want to survive the fall. He’s underwater, comes up. Water so cold he’s screaming in pain, then yells “Help, hombre here, in water, agua, agua , save me, drowning.” Sick in the stomach, throws up. Takes in a mouthful of water when he does. Goes under a little, comes up. Spikes in his head, legs feel chopped off. It’s all lost, he thinks. I can’t take it. Hands so numb he can’t unstrap his jacket. Straps loosen enough and he slips out of it, blows out his breath and lets himself go down. For a few seconds, while he’s going down, his mind whirls around, stops on a picture of his parents. It’s from an old photo.

Sits down, puts on his glasses, picks up the paper, unfolds it. Forgot the coffee. God, what a mind. Forget it. No, wants it. Paper’s better with it and it with the paper. Puts the paper down, goes into the kitchen, gets the mug off the stove, goes back to the living room, sits, where’s the paper? Sitting on it, sits up, paper, looks for his glasses. Can’t believe it. And sometimes he has to look for them ten minutes, fifteen. Goes into the kitchen, probably left them there. Not there. Makes a sweeping look around. They should keep the kitchen neater. Put away things that can be put away. Straighten out the cabinets and shelves, clean the table and countertops, sweep and mop the floor while they’re at it, wash the cabinet windows. Room’s too confusing now, things open and out of place, it irritates some sense of order in him. Denise thinks he goes too far when he calls something like this disorder. She left most of these things out and drawers and cabinet doors open. Closes and puts away a cereal box, shuts all the cabinet doors, starts for the living room, feels the glasses on his face. How come now and not before? It’s happened several times. Funny when it does. If Denise were here he’d tell her. Tell her before he’d tell her they should clean and keep the kitchen neater, clean the whole apartment, really. Dust, scour, sweep, vacuum, mop, tidy up. Get on their knees to clean the bathroom and kitchen baseboards — that’s how he does it. If she were in another room he’d go to it to tell her about losing his glasses. “Searched I don’t know how long for them.” He’d exaggerate. Actually searched three to four minutes and maybe a minute of that were his thoughts about cleaning the kitchen, but to make the story better he’d say ten minutes, fifteen. “High and low, this place and that. Even looked in the breadbox and refrigerator, thinking, who knows, maybe I left them there. Maybe twenty minutes. Went through all the rooms. Got mad, even, and called myself an incredibly absentminded jerk. I finally gave up and settled back in my reading chair with my spare pair of glasses. I searched that long for them, even though I have this extra pair, because the lost pair is the far better pair by far. Both bifocal parts are larger, less scratched, and the side supports clench my temples better. Well, and this is almost too ridiculous to tell. Unbelievable too. But when I put the spare pair on they hit up against the lost pair already on my face. For about ten seconds I had two pairs of glasses on my face, and for a few seconds I didn’t know why I couldn’t get the spare pair closer to my face.” Maybe he wouldn’t go that far. Wonders what two pairs would be like to read with or just look at things through. Try it. Too much effort. No, do. Also in case she asks what they were like to have on. Goes to his study, gets the spare pair off the worktable, goes back to his reading chair, sits, sips, puts the second pair over the first and looks at the paper. When he fits the two together he can read as well as he can with one pair on, at least for the short time he tries it. Surprises him. Distance? Looks around the room — everything seems the same; no headache or eyestrain — out the window. Man he recognizes from the neighborhood jogs by in a jogging suit, pushing a stroller. Could be dangerous if he slips or the stroller hits an uneven pavement block. Lots of them around from the tree roots underneath. Eva’s flipped over in it once and he’s taken a couple of spills the last few months just walking casually but not abstractedly alone. Seen him a few times when they both pushed strollers opposite ways at a normal walking pace, and they smiled or waved. Even thought of stopping him to talk about what it’s like having children so late, man being around his age, and possibly sharing some child-rearing ideas, and maybe next time he will. Would like to see himself in the glasses, for he must look silly. But no mirror in the room and not the time of day to see his reflection in the window. Second pair back in its case, looks at the front page.