the air was full of ribbets and robbets, croaking music high and low and in between. Pleased, he listened to the symphony, and when it was at its peak, he rose on his hands and lifted all the way to his fingers, his version of tippy-toes. Fingers aching with effort, he moved silently around the pond to the rocky waterfall, watching for a frog. Despite the Malibu lights, it was difficult to spot even one, for they sought out the shadows.
The invisible singers continued their melody as Robin settled his body next to the waterfall. He waited, listening, and while he did, he glanced up at the house and saw the bedroom light come on. Icky Ricky was up for sure. Grinning, he thought his scaredy-cat brother probably had to go pee, because he always had to turn on the light before he could even get out of bed.
Ribbet ribbet. Something moved in the darkness, and suddenly, right in front of him, he saw the dark shape of a large amphibian. It hopped even closer, and Robin grabbed it, squeezing hard to keep it from slipping out of his grasp.
The other singers fell silent.
He touched the frog. smelled it and tasted it, then spat at the bitterness. Then he worked its legs, pumping them up and down, up and down, fascinated. Legs legs legs legs legs. He petted it, stuck his fingers in its mouth, and looked up and smiled when he saw Rickyâs silhouette in the bedroom window. Probably Ricky couldnât see him right now, but he could certainly remedy that.
Sticking the frogâs legs in his mouth, ignoring the bitter, moldy flavor, he clamped his teeth down on them so that, no matter how hard it kicked, it couldnât get away. He rose on his hands, moved around to the back of the waterfall, and nimbly climbed to the top.
Settling his body on the smooth stone just above the water spout, he waved at his brother. Icky Ricky saw him, but didnât wave back. That was fine by Robin.
Legs legs legs legs legs. He took the frog from his mouth, wiping his lips and spitting, then held it up for Ricky to see, one little foot in each hand.
âLegs legs legs legs legs,â he whispered, holding the frog up above his head. Slowly he began to pull the legs apart. The frog made a sound, a funny little froggy-scream. Then, after a long moment, its skin made a ripping sound and the creature came apart. Blood spattered like raindrops across Robinâs face and into his open mouth. âLegs legs legs legs legs,â he said, tossing the dismembered halves into the pond.
He lifted himself up on his hands. âIcky Ricky, icky Ricky, come out and play,â he called, his voice melding with the waterfall and the night breeze. âCome out and swim with me.â Laughing, he propelled himself over the waterfall, into the pond, surprising the fishies, and washing frogâs blood from his skin. Legs legs legs legs legs.
7
June 1, Today
Â
Locusts. The air hissed with their high, dry sounds, rasping, phoneline electric, screaming outside the car. Rick Piper cringed as he closed the window. He hated the locusts. He hated the desert.
Until he turned right on Vegas Boulevard and saw that the thermometer on the First Interstate Bank read 104 degrees, he wasnât even aware that his shirt was plastered to his body. Youâre losing it, Piper. Sighing, he loosened his tie, switched on the air conditioner, and let the chill air turn his sweat to ice.
Sinatra dobedobedoed at him when he turned on the radio. Wincingâa reflex born in childhoodâhe switched to the news. The stations rarely played any music he liked, and carrying cassettes in the car in this heat was a bad idea; they melted.
The desert, thought Rick, sucks. Clear, sunny, and hot, the weatherman was saying, yesterday, today, and tomorrow. It never changed. When he was a kid, heâd thought Southern California had no weather. Lord, had he been wrong about that.
If you donât like it, you can move. He glanced at the envelope on the seat beside him.
The invisible singers continued their melody as Robin settled his body next to the waterfall. He waited, listening, and while he did, he glanced up at the house and saw the bedroom light come on. Icky Ricky was up for sure. Grinning, he thought his scaredy-cat brother probably had to go pee, because he always had to turn on the light before he could even get out of bed.
Ribbet ribbet. Something moved in the darkness, and suddenly, right in front of him, he saw the dark shape of a large amphibian. It hopped even closer, and Robin grabbed it, squeezing hard to keep it from slipping out of his grasp.
The other singers fell silent.
He touched the frog. smelled it and tasted it, then spat at the bitterness. Then he worked its legs, pumping them up and down, up and down, fascinated. Legs legs legs legs legs. He petted it, stuck his fingers in its mouth, and looked up and smiled when he saw Rickyâs silhouette in the bedroom window. Probably Ricky couldnât see him right now, but he could certainly remedy that.
Sticking the frogâs legs in his mouth, ignoring the bitter, moldy flavor, he clamped his teeth down on them so that, no matter how hard it kicked, it couldnât get away. He rose on his hands, moved around to the back of the waterfall, and nimbly climbed to the top.
Settling his body on the smooth stone just above the water spout, he waved at his brother. Icky Ricky saw him, but didnât wave back. That was fine by Robin.
Legs legs legs legs legs. He took the frog from his mouth, wiping his lips and spitting, then held it up for Ricky to see, one little foot in each hand.
âLegs legs legs legs legs,â he whispered, holding the frog up above his head. Slowly he began to pull the legs apart. The frog made a sound, a funny little froggy-scream. Then, after a long moment, its skin made a ripping sound and the creature came apart. Blood spattered like raindrops across Robinâs face and into his open mouth. âLegs legs legs legs legs,â he said, tossing the dismembered halves into the pond.
He lifted himself up on his hands. âIcky Ricky, icky Ricky, come out and play,â he called, his voice melding with the waterfall and the night breeze. âCome out and swim with me.â Laughing, he propelled himself over the waterfall, into the pond, surprising the fishies, and washing frogâs blood from his skin. Legs legs legs legs legs.
7
June 1, Today
Â
Locusts. The air hissed with their high, dry sounds, rasping, phoneline electric, screaming outside the car. Rick Piper cringed as he closed the window. He hated the locusts. He hated the desert.
Until he turned right on Vegas Boulevard and saw that the thermometer on the First Interstate Bank read 104 degrees, he wasnât even aware that his shirt was plastered to his body. Youâre losing it, Piper. Sighing, he loosened his tie, switched on the air conditioner, and let the chill air turn his sweat to ice.
Sinatra dobedobedoed at him when he turned on the radio. Wincingâa reflex born in childhoodâhe switched to the news. The stations rarely played any music he liked, and carrying cassettes in the car in this heat was a bad idea; they melted.
The desert, thought Rick, sucks. Clear, sunny, and hot, the weatherman was saying, yesterday, today, and tomorrow. It never changed. When he was a kid, heâd thought Southern California had no weather. Lord, had he been wrong about that.
If you donât like it, you can move. He glanced at the envelope on the seat beside him.
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