Stephen Dixon: Frog

“Frieda was a gem, they thought. She ran the house. Kept the kids disciplined, quiet when necessary and out of the way. Three boys too, so no easy task. She gave them the time to do what they liked. Work, play, go off for a week or weekend whenever they wanted. Cruises, and once all summer in Europe. And she wasn’t well paid either. None of the nannies then were.”

“But she did lots of cruel things like that feces scene. She beat you, hit your face. Smacked your hands with a spatula that you said stung for hours later.”

“That was Jadwiga, the Polish woman who replaced Frieda when Frieda married.”

“Sent you to bed without your dinner several times.”

“Both of them.”

“Twisted your wrists till they burned. Right? Frieda?” He nods. “Face it, she was a sadist, but your parents permitted it.”

“Look, you have to understand where she came from and the period. As for my parents, who knows if they didn’t think that discipline — her kind — and it probably wasn’t an uncommon notion then — attitude, belief, whatever — was what we needed. The kids. And OK, since they didn’t want to discipline us like that themselves — didn’t have the heart to, or the discipline for it or the time — she got anointed. Appointed . That wasn’t intentional. I’m not that smart. Or just was tacitly allowed to. Anyway, Frieda came from Hanover. 1930 or so. A little hamlet outside. My father hired her right off the boat. Literally, almost. She was here for two or three days when he got her from an employment agency. And that had to be the way she was brought up herself. Germany, relatively poor and little educated, and very rigid, tough, hard, disciplined years.”

“What did your father do after he stopped laughing? Did he clean your face?”

“I don’t remember, but I’m sure he didn’t. He would never touch it. The shit? That was Frieda’s job. On her day off, my mother’s.”

“Can you remember though?”

“Let me see.” Closes his eyes. “She put me down. I’d asked her to. Your know all that. I ran into the kitchen. I see him coming, and then he’s there. He’s got on a business suit, white shirt and a tie. His office was in front of the building, you know.”

“Yes.”

“So it could have been around lunchtime. He came back to the apartment for lunch every workday. Did it through a door connecting the office and apartment.”

“The door’s not there now, is it?”

“On my mother’s side it is — in the foyer — but she had that huge breakfront put up in front of it. On the other side it was sealed up when he gave up the office. I don’t know why they didn’t have the door sealed up on their side. Would have been safer from break-ins and more aesthetic. Maybe he thought he’d start up his practice again when he got well enough to. But after he gave up the office it was rented by another dentist. A woman. He sold her most of his equipment. And he wouldn’t have been in a business suit then. White shirt and tie, yes. He wore them under his dental smock on even the hottest days. So now it makes me wonder. It was definitely a business suit I saw. A dark one. He must have come into the apartment through the front door, not the office door. It was probably a Sunday. Frieda got her day off during the week and a half day off on Sunday right after lunch. So I don’t know. Maybe it was one of the Jewish holidays. He could have just come back from shul . But where were my brothers? They could have gone with him and were now playing outside. And my mother? She would have been in the kitchen cooking if it was a Jewish holiday. That was the time — the only time, just about, except for Thanksgiving and I don’t know what — my father’s birthday? her father visiting? which he did every other week till he died when I was six, through I don’t ever remember seeing him, there or any other place — when she really went at it in the kitchen. The other times it was fairly quick and simple preparations and, occasionally, deli or chow mein brought in. Maybe we were going to my father’s sister’s — Ida and Jack’s — in Brooklyn for dinner that night. We did that sometimes. She cooked kosher, if that’s the right expression, and my father, raised on it, still fancied it, especially on Jewish holidays. Anyway, he approached. I was around three or four at the time. So if it was a nursery school day and not a serious Jewish holiday and I wasn’t home from school because I was sick — but she never would have put shit in my face if I were sick — then it was the afternoon. My nursery school for the two years was always in the morning. But what about my father’s business suit? Let’s just say he closed the office for the day and had a suit on because he’d just come back from a dental convention downtown. He’s there though. I see him coming through the living room into the kitchen. I run through the breakfast room — where we never had breakfast, except Sunday morning, just dinner — to the kitchen. The kitchen was where we had breakfast and lunch. Frieda’s behind me. I don’t remember seeing her, just always sensed she was. I hold out my arms to him. I’m also crying. I don’t remember that there, but how could I not be? I think a little of the shit was getting into my mouth. I don’t remember smelling it but do tasting it a little. All this might sound like extrapolation, exaggeration — what I didn’t smell but did taste. But I swear it’s not. Anyway, to it. Arms are out. Mine. I’ve a pleading look. I know it. I had never felt so humiliated, soiled, so sad, distressed — you name it. Dramatic, right? I’m telling you,” opening his eyes, “I felt absolutely miserable and this had to be evident to him. So maybe when he saw me he took that kind of defense — laughter — rather than deal with it, try to comprehend it. But maybe not. Maybe he did think I tripped into it. So even though I was so distressed his first reaction might have been ‘Oh my God, Howard’s tripped into shit.’ Maybe he thought it was our dog Joe’s. Or dirt. That I’d been playing in one of the backyard planters, or that it was paint on my face. Clay. But no play clay’s that color. Maybe it does get that way when you mix all the colors up. Anyway, my arms are out. Let me try to get beyond what I’ve so far can’t remember about it. Past the blank.” Shuts his eyes. “Arms. He’s there. Kitchen. I run to him. Frieda’s behind me. Sense that. I’m crying. Have to. Pleading look. He laughs. Blank. Blank.” Opens his eyes. “No, didn’t work. Most of my real old memories end like that. Like a sword coming down. Whop! Maybe hypnosis would get me past, but I tend to doubt those aids. Or can’t see myself sitting there, just submitting.”

“But your mother. Didn’t she say it never happened?”

“To me, yes. She says it happened to Alex. He says it did happen to him but nothing about a kitchen or pair of pants, which she seems to remember hearing he did it in, or my dad. That he was in a bathtub by himself — one of the first times. Till then he had always bathed toe-to-toe with Jerry, but Frieda throught they were too grown-up for that so had it stopped — when he suddenly shit. Two big—”

“Come on, spare me.”

“So he called out that he’d just made kaka in it. Frieda came, grabbed some of it out of the water and put it in his face. He said he never kakaed again in the tub or anywhere but in the potty, or at least that he doesn’t remember being anything but toiletized after that.”

“How about you?”

“I don’t know if what Frieda did to me stopped me from having kaka accidents or even was the last time she put it in my face. I do think it happened to me. For sure. Memory of it’s too vivid for it not to have happened, but I guess that doesn’t have to be the case.”