Frog by Stephen Dixon Read Free Book Online Page A

foreigner here—well, you know. Also, since your parents didn’t object, and I always told them later what I did, I felt I had their approval. Am I wrong, Mrs. T.?”
    â€œYou had it. I’m not going to deny it now. Not for putting filth in their faces—this is the first I can remember hearing of that—but as Howard said, it’s past, finished. But no matter what happened, all my boys couldn’t have turned out better.”
    â€œDid anything like that ever happen in my face?” he asks Frieda. “In the bathtub? Anyplace?”
    â€œNo, you? You were toilet-trained earlier than the others, so it never got necessary. A year earlier than either of them. By the age of eighteen months, if I’m not wrong. Two years at the most, and that’s for both things. You probably had the advantage of seeing them go to the potty on their own, and maybe even scolded or punished for doing it in their pants. So you followed them, did what they did or were supposed to—going to the toilet.”
    â€œThat’s the way it usually is,” his mother says.
    â€œHe was ahead of the other two in many ways like that. Reading. Writing. Manners at the table. It could be just the reverse with the youngest, but wasn’t with him. Dressing himself. Almost everything. Remember how you let him eat at the adult table, rather than here in the kitchen with me, two years before you let the other two?”
    â€œMaybe because he was the last, and to give you a break from it finally, we let him join our table.”
    â€œNo, I remember. Because he ate. Because he didn’t drop things on the floor or talk loudly and interrupt at the table. He was a dream child. Active and a bit of a rascal at times, yes, but that’s not so bad if it’s not too often. But sweet, good-natured, helpful most times—a real young gentleman with a much older head than his age. If I had had children, boys or girls, I would have wanted them to be the way you were more than like your brothers. They were good, but you were almost perfect to bring up. You listened and watched. And what I did to Alex in the tub was the only time I think I ever did anything like that. I can’t really remember it happening another time, before or after.”
    â€œI don’t remember being toilet-trained so early. Well, of course I wouldn’t, but it’s interesting to know.”
    â€œHe was a dream child,” his mother says. “You never said it before, but I always knew you had a special place for Howard over the others.”
    â€œI did, but not by much, you understand. They were all wonderful. I felt very lucky with the family I ended up in. But maybe Howard was just a little more wonderful. A little.” She smiles at him, reaches out to touch his cheek and then kisses it. He hugs her.
    On the subway ride home he tries to remember the incident again. First of all, it happened. He knows it did or is almost a hundred percent sure. He runs to his father. First he walks bowlegged to Frieda, points to his crotch. She knows what it is, takes his hand and pulls him into the bathroom. She takes down his pants. His shoes—she takes them off, socks with them. Then she takes off the underpants carefully so the shit stays in them. She says “This will teach you never to do it in your pants again.” That’s new, but he thinks he just imagined she said it. Her face is angry. It was probably a thick shit, not messy. She puts it into his face. He cries—screams—and she picks him up and holds him in front of the mirror. He sees his face with the shit on most of it. Just then he hears his father. “Hello, anyone around?” Something like that. He squirms to get down, is let down, runs to him. She says “Go on, show him, and don’t forget to tell him what you did.” That’s also new, but he really seems to remember it. His father’s coming into the kitchen from the