Stephen Dixon - Frog

Gets out of bed, his underpants off the floor and puts them on. In case he has to run into the public hallway or the street. Anyway, they’re briefs and he’ll be less vulnerable down there and also look stronger in them than with none on and everything hanging. A consideration. Might mean nothing. But he’s big chested, narrow waisted, in the mirror he can look powerful. Looks around, room dark, little streetlight through the shade cracks is all. Denise asleep. He has nothing. Lamp? Won’t do. Too big, won’t swing. Then what? What’s he have? VCR, TV, two of the same kind of lamps, night tables, rocking chair, Denise’s typewriter on her desk, clamp lamp above it, would collapse on impact, framed photos and prints on the wall, dresser, drawers, clothes, shoes in the closet and under the bed, maybe her boots. Couldn’t get a good grip on the leather tops. Night table, a foldup, on her side, probably lots of little things on it next to the lamp and books. Grab it by the legs and just rush the man. Or fold it up and wield it like a sledgehammer. Light enough to and in an open space he could really swing it. Goes around the bed, gets on the floor and unplugs the lamp, takes it off the table and sets it on the floor. Denise stirs. He stops. She lifts her head, turns it to him. He bends down to her ear, puts his hand over her mouth. “Shh,” he whispers. “Don’t speak. I think we’re being robbed. Almost sure of it. I’ll handle it, shh.” She takes his hand away. “What are you doing?” she whispers. “Shh, shh. I’m going to use the table on him. Just in case. Don’t worry.” “Don’t,” she says; “wait; let me think.” “The kids. No time. I have to. It’ll be OK. Get up quietly and stand by the phone. Don’t pick it up. Then when I say to, call the police. Shh. No other words. No questions.” He puts the books on the floor. She gets off the other side of the bed. He brushes the things off the table into his hand. Earstuds, paperclip, pencil, spool of thread but no needle in it, feels around, no needle on the table, used tissues, face cream, sea shells, what feel like nail clippings, puts them on the bed. She’s by the phone on the VCR. For a few seconds her hands over her face. “Shh, don’t cry or let on you’re here,” he whispers; “important.” Picks up the table by its legs, takes a deep breath but not to hear, lets it out and yells “I’m coming, you bastard — Call, call now,” he whispers; “911, but quietly — You better get the hell out the way you came in and quick. Now out, get, out.” Hears movement, feet going, running. ‘There’s someone.” “Police,” she says low, “we need help. A burglar in our apartment.” Gives the address, name, phone and apartment numbers. Both kids screaming. “Stay away, you fucker,” and runs down the hall holding the table straight out in front of him. Man’s not there. “You OK? It’s Daddy,” to Olivia. Her room’s dark but she’s nodding, now crying. Man’s not in the bathroom. Goes into Eva’s room at the end of the hall. She’s standing in her crib screaming. Goes into the hall leading to the living room, feels the front door. Still locked and chained. Looks through the hall door into the kitchen. Nobody seems to be there. Walks down the hall to the living room, table in front of him. “I’m coming. I can kill you. I have a gun.” “Don’t say that,” Denise says from somewhere in back. “You came through the kitchen, get out that way.” The man runs from the living room into the dining room, then into the kitchen. Howard follows slowly. “Get out, get out.” Can’t see his face. Just a silhouette of him. Tall, thin, bald or hair cut close or skull shaved or wearing a stocking over his face. Running sound as if he has sneakers on. Tries to open the kitchen door to the fire escape. Why’d he shut it? Must have been the way he came in. It was locked when they went to bed. Must have shut it so the wind wouldn’t wake them, wind or cold. Something. Door can get stuck. He’s trying to pull it open. “Fucking-ass door. What’s with it? Fuck you then,” turning to Howard at the dining room door. “I’ll kill you first if you come for me.” “Just go and no killing,” keeping the table straight out. “Fuck you, man, you haven’t got nothing but that fucking board. Probably cardboard. Now back up. I’ve got a knife bigger than you.” Howard backs up, table still in front of him. The man holds the knife out and starts to him. “Listen, just go out through the door over there on your right and we’ll forget it.” “Yeah, why?” “Just unlock and unchain it, that’s all, and leave. You’ve time.” “Give me all your money and I’ll go. I’m not going without your money. Get your fucking wife to get it, and fast.” “There’s nobody else here.” “You crazy?” “Just my little kid; that’s who you heard.” Still coming. What to do? Backs up. “Police are on the way. I set off an alarm second I heard you. I’ve been robbed here before. I know what to do.” “Sure. And you got an alarm, you got money. Come on. Wasting my time. Fast.” Anything to throw at him? Shout and he might leap at him with the knife. Fingers the table behind him for something to throw. Maybe the bottle of wine if they didn’t put it away. Little silver wine holder; too light. Salt and pepper shakers, kid’s boardbook, place settings, baby’s spoon. Guy’s too close. If he darts either way to get away the knife could reach him. Lunge at him with the table, then drop it if it doesn’t knock the knife away and run into the living room. Throws the table at him, runs, knife slashes his shoulder, nicks his arm. In the living room he remembers the stick to hold the window up lying on the sill. Grabs it. Blood all over the place but so what? Man’s in the living room. No pain, isn’t weak, cuts don’t seem deep. Swings the stick back and forth, blood spattering the window and walls, and says “Fuck it, now I’ve had it. Get out—111 bust your goddamn head in,” and runs to the fireplace and grabs the wood Japanese statue off of it and swings both in front of him. “Bullshit, you can’t do anything. Get your money — come on.” “Help, police, someone, a burglar here, a killer,” he shouts and then knocks things off the shelves with the statue and stick to wake Gil downstairs, get him here. Runs to the floor lamp behind the armchair and turns it on. Denise is screaming in back, kids screaming. For a few seconds he can’t see anything. Man’s rubbing his eyes too. Young man. Shaved skull. No stocking. Late teens, maybe twenty. Long tight upperarms, enormous hands. Black nylon undershirt. Bright celestial design-circles in circles — in the middle of it. Big teeth and awful face. Taller than he thought. Six-one, — two. Knife out. Long enough to go through him. Like a hunting kinfe. A survival knife he thinks he’s seen it advertised as. “You dumb prick,” the man says. “Get the kids in a room, Denise, and lock the door,” he shouts behind the chair. “Get it closed. Any room. The bathroom. It has a lock, you hear? Do you hear?” “Yes,” she yells. “What’re they doing?” the man says, looking down the front hall. “Are you locked in?” Howard shouts. “Just about,” she says. Man rushes down the hall. Howard runs after him with the statue and stick. Door slams, locking sound. “Take what you want now,” Howard says to his back and runs into the kitchen, drops the statue into the sink, kicks the bottom of the door, pulls the door loose, gets on the fire escape and down the ladder and drops to the ground.

Runs to the sidewalk screaming “Help, police, murderer in our apartment, 35 Ribeka, second floor.” Was that good to do? Denise. Man might break the bathroom lock. Runs around the building and rings all the tenants’ bells. “What?” someone says. “Yes?” “Hello?” “Who’s there?” others say. “Not all at once,” he says. “It’s Howard Tetch. There’s a murderer in my apartment and my family’s there. I just got out through the fire escape but they’re in the bathroom. My wife and kids. Ring me in.” Lots of buzzing. One person says “Oh Lord” over the intercom. He goes in, runs back to the door, holds it open with his foot, stretches over and rings all the bells. “Yes?” “What is it?” “Who’s there?” “Does anyone have a gun? If you do, could you bring it to me at my door or just by the staircase?” No answer. “If you do have one, loaded — please.” Runs upstairs, down the hall, bangs on his door. “I’m coming in with the cops, you bastard, so you better get the hell out. The door to the fire escape’s open. Denise, you all right?” Doesn’t hear anything. Thinks he hears something. “Yell if you’re all right, Denise.” “Yes, OK,” she yells. “Stay there.” Runs back down the hall, into the short alcove that has a door at the end of it opening onto the fire escape. Opens it, gets on the escape, man doesn’t seem to have left, not a person on the sidewalk. Goes into the apartment, gets the big cutting knife out of the drawer, bottle of ammonia under the sink, fills up a water glass with it, walks into the front hall. Man’s not there. Holds his breath. Can’t hear him, maybe because Olivia’s still crying. Maybe he did leave. “I advise you to get out now, fella. You have my permission. Go through the front door,” unchaining and unlocking it and throwing it open, “or the outside kitchen door. That’s open now too.” The two women in the apartment across the hall look at him through their half-opened door. “What’s wrong?” one of them says. “You’re bleeding something awful.” “Call the police. Burglar with a knife might still be inside. If he comes out — you hear this, burglar? If you come out, I’m telling my neighbors across the hall, they should let you go. Don’t even try to stop him or even scream,” he shouts to the women. “I’m stepping back now, burglar. I mean I’m going to the middle of the front hall but against the wall without the door. The front hall’s the one by the opened front door. If you’re in the living room, go out through the dining room into the kitchen or just go past me through the front door or just any way you want to go. Through the dining room into the kitchen and then out the kitchen door to the front door in the front hall. Or you want me to go into any other room but the bathroom when you leave, say so. But you better do it fast. The police have to be here soon. But if you try anything funny before you leave, I’ve a glass of ammonia I’m holding that I’ll throw in your eyes and several knives and something to chop off your head too. Do you hear? You going or not?” “I hear,” from the back hall or one of the kids’ rooms. “It sounds like a trap.” “It isn’t. Just go. I won’t stop you. You can understand why. I just want you out.” “I don’t know.” “Through the kitchen door and down the fire escape’s the best and quickest way. I did it myself just before to get out. It’s easy.” Listens. Nothing. No sound from the bathroom too. “I have that door wide open now. I came back through the building’s hallway onto the fire escape. You can even go out that way if you want and down the stairs and out the building’s front door. But you’ll probably have a better chance of escaping through the kitchen door to the fire escape and down the ladder. It’s still dark out there; nobody will see you. Anyway, you better be going.” “OK, I’m going. Out the kitchen door. Step into the fucking living room.” “Anything you say.” “No tricks. You die before you pull something on me.” “Don’t worry, none. I just want you gone.” Man runs into the kitchen and out the kitchen door. Howard goes into the kitchen, sees him hanging from the ladder about to drop, goes on the fire escape and says “I hope you break your fucking leg, you bastard. Break it. Drop, you bastard, fucker, sonofabitch,” and leans over and spills the ammonia on his head. The man screams. Howard goes into the kitchen to get the rest of the ammonia but when he gets to the fire escape the man’s gone. “Thief on the street, tall guy,” he shouts. “Shaved skull, black T-shirt with no sleeves — an undershirt, sneakers. Thief, broke into our apartment, has a big knife.” Denise comes into the kitchen carrying Eva and her arm around Olivia. “Good God, your arm.” “All over. Something not to be believed, right?” and shuts and locks the door. “You have to take care of that. Is it deep?” “Two places. Not deep. Got it with his knife. One’s already stopped.” “Daddy’s bleeding,” Olivia says. “It’s not so bad, sweetie,” and washes the arm down with a wet dishtowel and holds a bunch of paper towels to his shoulder. Knock on the door. He starts. “Is it OK now?” one of the two women says. Beverly or Rhonda. Can never get their names straight, when he remembers their names. “There really was a burglar here?” she says, both coming into the kitchen. “Excuse me,” turning away, the other going back out. “Let me get a bathrobe on,” he says and kisses Denise, Olivia, top of Eva’s head, says to the other woman in the front hall “Go back in there; I’ll be right out,” goes into the bathroom, washes the blood off the rest of his body, puts antiseptic on the cuts, gets his bathrobe on, the handkerchief out of the bathrobe pocket and holds it to the shoulder cut, goes to the kitchen. “Have you seen the cat?” he says to the three women. “She might have got out.” “In our closet,” Denise says. “She was as scared as the rest of us.” “That sonofabitch,” he says. “I thought we were done for, all of us,” and closes his eyes, feels like crying but doesn’t want to scare the kids more than they’ve been so holds back. “We called the police,” Beverly or Rhonda says. “Thank you.” Bell rings from downstairs. “That must be them,” one of the women and Denise say at the same time. He presses the intercom’s talk button and says “Yes, police?” “It’s me, you fag. I know where you are. I’ll get you for burning me. We had a deal. I’ll get you good. Knife in your heart when you’re not looking. When you’re in bed or walking on the street.” “Try it,” he shouts, “just try it. I’ll be armed from now on. No bullshit, I’m not kidding, so try it. I’ll kill you first.” Presses the listen button. No answer. Presses the talk button. “Did you hear me, killer? I said did you hear me? Just try your shit with me and you’re dead.” “Forget it,” Denise says. “Really, he’s probably gone. Just shut the door and I’ll get the girls back in bed.” He shuts the front door. “Need any help?” Beverly or Rhonda says to Denise. “No thanks, you’ve been very helpful as it is.” “You know, this same thing happened this summer in this building.” Denise shakes her head, indicates with her eyes the kids. She takes them to their rooms and the woman says to Howard “It did, almost the same thing. We didn’t tell you. We forgot. When you were away. To the people who moved into F-5. But after it happened, moved out the next week. He took their money and jewelry and some other things and threatened to hurt them but didn’t. I forget what they said he looked like except he was white. Do you remember, Ron?” “Not exactly. He wasn’t so young, that I remember. Forty, they said, closer to fifty, and very dirty looking. They were surprised he was still hoisting himself up to fire escapes at that age.” “Mine was much younger and actually pretty clean looking, and black. It’s terrible, though, whenever it happens.” “Fortunately, nobody got too hurt.” Beverly grabs Rhonda’s arm, says “That’s enough chatter if we want to let Howard get back to sleep,” and he sees them to the door. He goes to the back hall. Eva’s already asleep. Olivia’s room is dark, Denise is humming a tune to her, when he hears a siren. Siren stops, he sees flashing through the living room window, must be the light on top of the car. Then more sirens, cars, flashing, doors slamming, two-way radio and talk and static, voices in the street. He goes downstairs to meet them. Doesn’t want them ringing the downstairs bell, which is loud, or even coming up, as they might wake up the kids and scare them. But he’s sure they’ll want to see things and make a report.