dissect — and, unthinking, had run for it. What did she think of him
now? Characterless, bookish , boring, a few possibilities jumped to mind.
They walked on
in near silence, and Nick glanced again to Meg's face. Did she now appear
ill-at-ease or was it his imagination? He ran his tongue nervously about the
inside of his mouth, as if searching for dialogue.
Soon nothing
marked their passage but the click of heels on concrete.
What did Nick
have to look forward to now? A wordless mile? How long would that take? Nick
did a quick calculation in his head: at two and a half miles an hour, a mile
would take … Twenty-four minutes. Almost a half an hour.
Meg glanced up
and said, "It feels like rain."
Nick followed
her line of sight, saw the stars were now invisible, blotted out by unseen
clouds. He agreed — it did feel like rain — and used the comment as
an excuse to resume a quicker pace. Meg's long strides barely matched his own.
Suddenly Meg
jumped sidewise with a short yelp, bumping up lightly against Nick's shoulder.
"What is
it?" he asked, steadying her with two hands.
She shook her
head, embarrassed. "Something moved, hopped by my foot. Just surprised me,
that's all."
Nick
investigated, expecting to see a squirrel, or more likely a rat, scurry off
into the bushes. Instead he spotted the culprit in a tuft of tall grass
bordering the sidewalk. He pointed it out to Meg .
"A toad. Big
one." He bent over it. "I don't think I've ever seen one in the
city."
Meg squatted
next to him. "Ugly," she commented, but without distaste.
"In a
way."
"I had a
book of fairy tales, growing up," Meg said. "Grimm's or Aesop's, I
suppose. It had ink illustrations. I remember one of them vividly: a toad,
sitting on a throne, with a scepter in its hand and a crown on its head.When I
see a toad, for some reason I always see that drawing in my head."
Different pictures
came to Nick, as his memory stirred as well. He tore a single blade of grass,
used it to gently stroke the toad's back as he considered the images. Things he
had not thought of for a long time. The toad sat unmoving, either unconcerned
or grateful for the attention .
"My family
had a cottage," Nick said finally, tentatively, in a reflective tone,
"on a lake. A point." How long since he had mentioned the cottage to
anyone?
"At night,
in the summer, we'd go swimming … my parents and I. We made it a race. Cottage
door to the pier." He paused, the smell of water, sand, and pine needles
filling his nostrils. " … First one in the water earned bragging
rights. There were toads all over the place. In my mom's rock garden, along the
shore. I was always so afraid of stepping on one; at the same time I wasn't
about to lose the race. I'd fly down the path barefooted, my fingers
crossed."
The toad along
the sidewalk, evidently bored with its back rub, hopped once, twice, to the
security of a low hanging bush .
"Looks like
he's taking no chances," Meg said, pointing.
Nick looked to
her; they smiled at each other. "You ever step on one?" she asked.
"Nope. Never."
Nick stood; Meg
did the same.
"And the
races?" Meg asked.
"Never
lost one of those either. Of course it didn't occur to me that mom and dad let
me win. … Funny, I used to think dad could do about anything in the world — anything — and
yet I thought I could outrun him. And at what? Seven, eight years old?"
Meg laughed. "I
was the same way. My mom, she was prettier than any of my friend's mothers, as
beautiful as anyone on TV — that's what I thought. But for a few years
there, around twelve, thirteen … a competitive age I guess … I
convinced myself … " She looked at him suspiciously. "Don't
laugh, okay?"
"Of course
not," Nick lied.
"I
convinced myself … That I had a more regal face."
A wide grin
took Nick's face, and Meg swatted him lightly on the shoulder. "You said
you wouldn't laugh."
"I'm
not," Nick protested. "Let's see, give me a profile." Meg played
along, and Nick said, "Yes, I can
now? Characterless, bookish , boring, a few possibilities jumped to mind.
They walked on
in near silence, and Nick glanced again to Meg's face. Did she now appear
ill-at-ease or was it his imagination? He ran his tongue nervously about the
inside of his mouth, as if searching for dialogue.
Soon nothing
marked their passage but the click of heels on concrete.
What did Nick
have to look forward to now? A wordless mile? How long would that take? Nick
did a quick calculation in his head: at two and a half miles an hour, a mile
would take … Twenty-four minutes. Almost a half an hour.
Meg glanced up
and said, "It feels like rain."
Nick followed
her line of sight, saw the stars were now invisible, blotted out by unseen
clouds. He agreed — it did feel like rain — and used the comment as
an excuse to resume a quicker pace. Meg's long strides barely matched his own.
Suddenly Meg
jumped sidewise with a short yelp, bumping up lightly against Nick's shoulder.
"What is
it?" he asked, steadying her with two hands.
She shook her
head, embarrassed. "Something moved, hopped by my foot. Just surprised me,
that's all."
Nick
investigated, expecting to see a squirrel, or more likely a rat, scurry off
into the bushes. Instead he spotted the culprit in a tuft of tall grass
bordering the sidewalk. He pointed it out to Meg .
"A toad. Big
one." He bent over it. "I don't think I've ever seen one in the
city."
Meg squatted
next to him. "Ugly," she commented, but without distaste.
"In a
way."
"I had a
book of fairy tales, growing up," Meg said. "Grimm's or Aesop's, I
suppose. It had ink illustrations. I remember one of them vividly: a toad,
sitting on a throne, with a scepter in its hand and a crown on its head.When I
see a toad, for some reason I always see that drawing in my head."
Different pictures
came to Nick, as his memory stirred as well. He tore a single blade of grass,
used it to gently stroke the toad's back as he considered the images. Things he
had not thought of for a long time. The toad sat unmoving, either unconcerned
or grateful for the attention .
"My family
had a cottage," Nick said finally, tentatively, in a reflective tone,
"on a lake. A point." How long since he had mentioned the cottage to
anyone?
"At night,
in the summer, we'd go swimming … my parents and I. We made it a race. Cottage
door to the pier." He paused, the smell of water, sand, and pine needles
filling his nostrils. " … First one in the water earned bragging
rights. There were toads all over the place. In my mom's rock garden, along the
shore. I was always so afraid of stepping on one; at the same time I wasn't
about to lose the race. I'd fly down the path barefooted, my fingers
crossed."
The toad along
the sidewalk, evidently bored with its back rub, hopped once, twice, to the
security of a low hanging bush .
"Looks like
he's taking no chances," Meg said, pointing.
Nick looked to
her; they smiled at each other. "You ever step on one?" she asked.
"Nope. Never."
Nick stood; Meg
did the same.
"And the
races?" Meg asked.
"Never
lost one of those either. Of course it didn't occur to me that mom and dad let
me win. … Funny, I used to think dad could do about anything in the world — anything — and
yet I thought I could outrun him. And at what? Seven, eight years old?"
Meg laughed. "I
was the same way. My mom, she was prettier than any of my friend's mothers, as
beautiful as anyone on TV — that's what I thought. But for a few years
there, around twelve, thirteen … a competitive age I guess … I
convinced myself … " She looked at him suspiciously. "Don't
laugh, okay?"
"Of course
not," Nick lied.
"I
convinced myself … That I had a more regal face."
A wide grin
took Nick's face, and Meg swatted him lightly on the shoulder. "You said
you wouldn't laugh."
"I'm
not," Nick protested. "Let's see, give me a profile." Meg played
along, and Nick said, "Yes, I can
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