Stephen Dixon - Frog

His father comes home from the army. Years later his brother tells him it wasn’t the army but prison. But for now it’s the army. He’s sure there’s going to be a celebration tonight though nobody’s said there’d be. Maybe they’re keeping it from him because it’s a surprise one and they’re afraid he’ll tell it. He wakes up early, thinking his father might have got home late last night, goes to his parents’ room, nobody’s in it and bed’s made, in the kitchen his mother says he should be here by the time Howard comes home for lunch. He leaves the house, tells the boys he walks to school with and his teacher and best friends in class that his father’s coming home from the army today, can’t wait, he’s a major in the dental corps and was stationed in New Mexico, that’s way out west, and lies that he was supposed to go to France to fix soldiers’ teeth, but then the war started to end there and they pulled him off the troopship. He runs home for lunch, hears them arguing through the front door, arguing as he goes into the apartment, “Dad, Dad, it’s me, Howard,” he says from the foyer, they’re arguing in the kitchen. “Eat shit then,” his father says. “You should talk. And really, just wonderful words to wait so long for.” They see him. “Howard, my darling little child, how are you?” and he gets down in a crouch and Howard runs into his arms and is picked up and kissed. “Whew, you’ve become such a load.” His mother’s been crying, he sees from up there, looks angry, fists clenched. He says “How was the army?” and his father says “The army was fine, just what I needed for a year and a half, much as I missed you all. How have you been — a good boy?” “Did you ever get overseas?” “No, they kept me in Albuquerque the whole time. That’s in New Mexico, near the real Mexico but still America.” “I know; I saw it on the map. Mom showed me it around all the mountains. Were there Indians and wild horses there? That’s what some people said there might be. And how come you have no uniform on? Did you hang it up? You don’t have to wear it when you’re home?” “Wait, hold it,” putting him down. “One question at a time. No uniform because I’ve been discharged. That means I’m out of the army, home for good. And it was always on loan — not yours — so I had to give it back. If I didn’t I’d be arrested. And Indians and horses? Not so many Indians; plenty of horses.” “Did you bring me any army patches?” “Was I supposed to? Don’t worry, I know who to send to and I’ll try and get some.” “Did you ride the horses?” “Never had time. Work work work, teeth and more teeth, and they were short dentists. But lots of mountains, lots of deserts, lots of springs.” “What are they?” “Springs. Water coming out of them, gushing or bubbling. They were lucky to have so many for New Mexico needs all the water it can get. So does the whole West, I think.” “Did you bring me anything from there? An Indian bracelet like I wrote you?” “All that’s still in my luggage. When it gets here I’ll have lots of gifts for you and all my darling kids. Now eat your lunch. I think that’s what your mother put on the table.” He eats. They leave the kitchen, shut the door and start arguing in the foyer. She tells him to go back where he came from and stay there, for all she cares. His father says any place would be better than here. “But what I want to know is why you have to act like that?” “Like what?” “Like a filthy rotten conniving bitch.” “You pig, you swine…” If his father left would he want to go with him or stay with his mother? Depends who Alex would go with. But if his father went back to New Mexico and took him he could learn to ride all those horses, there’d be all that country, he could shoot guns and climb mountains and slide down parts of them, maybe make friends with an Indian his age. His father was only in the army there though, so he wouldn’t move back now that he’s discharged. But suppose his parents broke up and his father only moved to another part of the city and wanted him to come along, what would he do? He doesn’t know. Then suppose a judge, like in some movie he saw, said choose who you want to live with, your mother or your dad, what would he do? He couldn’t live without his mother. He’d hate not living with his father, and without Alex and Vera if they chose to go with his father, but he’d just have to settle for seeing them all as much as he could. Does that mean he loves his mother more than his father? He can’t answer. He doesn’t want to think about it. If he got that far as to say he knows who he loves better, he knows he’d be struck down dead by something or for his whole life after that seriously cursed.

In the park with his mother and sister. Nice day, very few people around. “Let’s go look at the ducks,” he says. “You go down, be careful, I’ll sit and watch you from here.” “No, I want to stay with you,” he says. “I do too,” Vera says. They continue walking. A vendor. “Can I have something?” he says. “May.” “May I have something too?” Vera says. She nods, opens her pocketbook. He gets an ice cream. Vera wants a popsicle and pretzel. “Don’t be a hog,” he says. She gets a big warm pretzel. “Sit down on the bench so you don’t sully your clothes while you’re eating.” They sit on either side of her and eat what they got. “Can I have some of yours?” Vera says. “May,” he says, “and no.” “It’d be nice if you both could share what you have, if only a single bite and lick.” He gives Vera a lick, she breaks off a small piece of pretzel and gives him it, they eat that and then continue to eat what they got. “You know, you’re both doing something that I can say doesn’t quite please me but which I’m sure you’re both unaware of, do you know what that can be?” “What?” he says. Vera says to her “I don’t know, what?” “I’m sure if you did know you’d correct it immediately. It’s OK though. You’ll learn on your own while you’re doing it — or not doing it. That’s a hint. Do you know what I mean now?” “No,” they say, “what?” “Or you’ll find out after from me. Go ahead, eat your snacks.” They eat. Little while later she says “You know, you’re both still doing something that displeases me, and now even a little more so than before, have you thought about what it could be?” “What?” he says. “What,” Vera says, “because I haven’t found out yet.” “You’ll find out sooner or later, I’m sure. Though I wish you could find out on your own and correct it on your own too.” “Is it something I said?” he says. “If it is, I’m sorry.” “No.” “Something I said?” Vera says. “Nothing either of you said though it does have something to do with words.” “Then I don’t know what it is,” Vera says and gets up and skips off a few feet, points at a squirrel circling the trunk of a tree till it’s in its branches, skips back and says “Did you see that? It was like a skip rope.” “How like a skip rope? A skip rope’s straight. You’re seeing things,” and eats his ice cream. “You both still don’t know what it is you’re doing wrong? Because you only have a little time left to correct it.” “No,” he says. “Is my shoelaces untied?” Looks. “No, they’re tied. Did I get ice cream on my clothes? I don’t see any. What did Vera do?” “Same thing you’re doing and which is still displeasing me.” “Can you give us one more hint?” “No more. If you can’t think of it, you can’t, so let’s forget about it for now.” “Can I go and skip like Vera?” “Of course, do what you wish, I’m not saying no. But finish your cone first if you’re about to skip or run.” He finishes the ice cream, chews on the cone, skips off, Vera skipping after him. They stop to watch a couple of squirrels jumping from the branch of one tree to another. His mother catches up with them. “Are you finished eating your cone?” “Finished. Where should I put the napkin?” “Hold it till we get to a trash can.” “I didn’t have a napkin,” Vera says. “I’m lucky, you’re not.” “Now that you both enjoyed your treats, want to know what you did that was so wrong and which made me practically ashamed of you?” No, he thinks. “What?” Vera says. “You didn’t offer any to the one person who didn’t have any.” He laughs. Vera looks at him and then laughs. “I’m serious, what’s so funny? If you get something, you offer the person who doesn’t have any some of it. If there are several people who don’t have it or anything like it and you’re the only person who does, you offer them all some of it. If there’s a crowd, then you eat it without offering.” “Why?” Vera says. “You could have had an ice cream or pretzel,” he says. “You have money.” “You’re missing the point. You were both being selfish. I wouldn’t have taken any if you had offered, since I don’t like ice cream or popsicles much and can’t stand pretzels, but that’s not the point either. The point is to offer even if you know the other person doesn’t want any. Always remember what I’m telling you here. I don’t want what you did repeated. Otherwise I won’t know what kind of children I’ve raised, and you can count on what I’ll say if you ask me for a treat after the next time.” He felt so good, feels so bad now. Vera doesn’t seem to feel bad though. She’s still smiling and says “Why not pretzels? Too salty?” “That and other reasons.” “Oh. Can I go now?” and his mother nods and Vera runs off. “And you? Any response?” He can’t speak, his throat’s choking him, and she says “OK, I think I can guess what you’ll do next time,” and sits on a bench and watches Vera circling a tree looking for a squirrel that just ran up it.